Somewhen,
a gull snaps its wings
and laughs
as I stretch out the past
to the city with its dark heart
and us,
splitting our skins for a kiss.
On the rim of a memory,
spinning,
we fizz
like silver pins
on that street
or this.
My lover’s words I remember
trembled
like globed pearls on tepid stars
the hot dark of torchlight
kicking
from the pavement
sparks
as he went.
Bone-bent,
with eighty-six years in my face,
I read books
and play cards
and years have dried up,
slow prunes
in a vase.
But last,
in my crabbed hands his skin,
doused with river lights,
no foul breath of wartime but
a whole lost world of long-kissed nights,
thin films of eyes candled bright
in the lobes of my palms,
the four-medal arms deliberate,
passionate,
strong.
Afterwards, the distant salute of a bomb.