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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


It is a forgotten letter.
A brush of the hand,
a flame,
the last flicker
of the glowing wood.
Where did I put you
my earthly presence?
The bright green of wet grass,
the hidden door.
I speak of you no more,
my first love,
sharp gust of new rain,
queen of all your sisters.

Where do you walk
after all these years?
What bed lies warm
with the moon rise
of your lips,
the flash of teeth,
a mouth that smiled
like a precious lake,
the sweetness of water?
How many women
have held me
by the pause
of your darting eyes,
your borrowed enchantment?
The odor of new leaves,
the musk
of spring’s fresh earth.

Do you call me back,
your hair dusted by time?
Your lips pale as frost,
the rose faded with cold.
Do you remember
our embraces,
the pause of sleep,
the warm fountain of closeness?
Your face is painted
in my memory,
your eyes blue as amethyst,
the pupils dark as onyx.
I have seen that darkness
only in caves,
in the subterranean treasure
of the earth,
light against a wall of blackness,
without stars,
a dizzying crevice
without depth or height,
and I fell into their passion,
their consuming hunger,
afraid and joyous.

Do you call for me
in dreams?
Through all these years
remember my boyish thrall?
Where are you,
when I walk
lonely with your memory?
When I look at the ground,
the mud,
the heaviness of years.
Would you recognize me now?
Remember my hands
the fever of my poems?

Have I rushed by you
in a frenzy?
Been near as a word?
A breath?
The reach of your arms?
I will never know
my beloved traveler,
my friend,
my willow,
hardened by cold.
We have gone our ways,
never to return.

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