The art of starting again

Everything has a beginning and an
end. A cheap violation. Saga!
Conqueror! The omen is my master. The image of grass and feathers,
gathering rain and disappearing
birds, thin gulls flying overhead at
the beach and then not flying
overhead, a trembling girl in a
man's arms who will never be
a girl again after that life experience.
Memory translated loosely from
the flesh and blood to the systems of
bone is like a river. The flight of birds,
voices are like gulls blooming in
the photochemical air above me.
In my dream a beggar melts into
water. The snow that gathers here
in winter is a witness to grief. It
seems as if something inside of me, (inside the
borders of me) is damaged or
wounded. Hurt and filled with
pain. There's an emptiness beneath
the skin. I find the hunting sessions of
melancholia there. The democracy
of smoke, holy, innocent and pure. It makes me feel
both exhausted and thirsty. I wanted

him to take me into his arms but
I also wanted to be the one to let
him go. Understand this! My inner
being is abundant. It is made up of
subliminal atoms and jubilant particles.
Visions of intimate rapture. In
my dream a beggar melts into water.
You open your mouth and out pours
shadows, darkness, despair, heartache.
I am older. You are old. More set
in your ways. I am after all these
years the damaged, harmed starling.
You were formidable, dazzling.
I am fragile. After the argument
with my mother, I think of you in faraway Johannesburg
armed with Los Angeles. A strange
heat underneath my skin, flesh and bone. Our relationship
(or whatever that was) ancient.