Claude, he wrote of you

such as I can’t—not like this,

for I’m no wordless brilliant.

His last line rings out into the silence

that has seduced me every night

since you've been gone, but

darling, you are in this song, inside

its notes, enshrined in the music of the gods

for bards to hymn in courtyards;

and the gong declaring a prayer;

and the leaves hung rustling from cypress trees.

The ether, she's a-whispering a secret

to a child, nobody else: that Love,

it’s the twinkling of an eye

when our world is on fire; Love,

it’s the wick who weeps her life away,

drop by drop, to feed the flame. So when I dare to say,

‘He wrote of you,’ it's true, and I mean it, and

Marika, she did too, when she wrote of you

sleepless, for your name is a charm, your smile

a honey jar, and your memory lasts

forever in the longing of this bum

for chump-change and paradise

where the rice paddies and rosewater flowing endlessly

are comforts for those sore of bone, those

weary of the road. Darling, I want to come

home to you. I want your essence. I want

whatever you are, the pure light that shines

out of the hollow bark of pain

as though my Soul were the sun tearing through

shadows so desperate it's only fair

that I should come home,

where the orange trees grow,

to lay with you, there.