I ran past you on the beach.
The moon burned in my sockets;
witches danced upon the black rim
of the world. My tongue was twisted
into a dream of fire.

Passing a giant oak
I saw my ghost
hanging like Judas
from a limb.

You followed, the sea scattering
its songs at your feet.
You caught me in a silver net,
kissed my eyes, my wrists.
The sun split open the trees
one by one, and I counted
my fingers in the leaves,
saw my bones in the bark.

Shaking myself free from
memory’s black gums
I tumbled down naked
in the warm sand
and listened to the seabirds
crying like mirrors
to the awakening sea.
In childhood dreams
your face struck me
like a sword
bright and blinding
in the sun.

I spent half my life
trying to find you.
(You had been, my mother said,
all around the world
and had died and been reborn
in many lovely bedrooms.
She hated your image
in my face.)

I saw you on a thousand streets.
The years tumbled by
like stones
as I ran after you,
the wind moaning against
my fiery skin.

I can still see your face,
framed in my tears and shining
half way to eternity.