Where does thought go?
Where are the traces of ourselves?
Footprints left.
Lips warm from kissing.
But where are we
when the door closes?
When the window is shut?
And there is nothing left
to see us with.
Does the world throw its flour
through our unsubstantial bodies,
and we see the shape of us?
Motes of dust.
Midges flying in the light.
What becomes of your beautiful hair
that falls like a sheet of silk
through the fingers of my thoughts?
My heart burning up with love.
But who is burned up
by the flame inside us?
Only another thought
full of its own fire.
Two thoughts more real than
the world.
We can compose poems
or blow the place up,
but ourselves?
Where are we?
Inside a soul?
Inside a miracle?
Inside a dream?
I don’t know,
except you are my love,
with a name.
And names are what we are,
outside the pages of the world,
that disappears in our reflection.