How can a man throw his shadow make this the illumination
of his experience, how put his weight exactly – there? — Charles Olson
When we look back it is there, that
darkness of ourselves born
of days when the sun was blinding.
I trace what’s left on the pavement
where you walked, schist or shit,
your heavy feet relearning those lost steps,
a dance we moved to once,
a shadow play in liquid streetlight,
late lamps, sodium glow of stars.
What mattered was matter, the precise
weight of you, so many ounces
of flesh and blood,
your hand on my shoulder, solid
and light like music,
our empty glasses on the table,
beakers for what cannot be
contained; the feather
of our lips, our touch.