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.