The conversation that is love
goes on, haphazard, hit or miss,
undisturbed by questions of
noesis or parenthesis.
Strolling solo, nowhere town,
I hear you praise the open space,
a clear, cerebral, almost-sound,
quite nonchalant, a commonplace.
I hadn’t questioned in our time
how you’d inhabited my brain;
how the mind I thought was mine
was an equivocal terrain.
Our arguments, if quieter now,
go on as ever: nothing goes
unchallenged; nothing’s disallowed.
As ever, thorns adorn the rose.
Thirty years, and twelve apart,
and still your voice informs my sleep,
still schools my autumn heart
in what we forfeit, what we keep.
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