A door was opening,
its blind believing sparks:
the high of happening,
the low of leaving marks.
The dark debating was
a well. What have we got?
The wide of waiting was
the narrow of a knot.
A storm was brewing in
the faces that would cloud
the deep of doing in
the shallow of a shroud.
Two lovers storing up
the kindling growing cold:
the short of shoring up,
the long of losing hold.
What water allows time
falls to smooth rock
finding its way
in tears of moving lime
Drawn down past earthen hands
skipping, tripping
what pebble stops
what pebble understands
Dying lights cast a line
whose turns are lost
in cool charcoal,
in rivulets of wine
Remember kissing you on the lips.
Recall well your warm, strong hands
stroking my neck, rubbing my chest.
But we lost balance, the two of us.
It is quiet now, very quiet.
Too much Time to meditate.
Not enough Time to reflect ...
in this dreaded Silence.
No more holding on to smoke rings
which floated softly in the air...
floated over the last remains
of the dear, departed Dead.
Dismember gassing you on the lapse.
Recoil wail your warm, strong Hans
striking my knack, robbing my jest.
But we lost Balanz, the due of Aus.
It is quite No, very quite.
Too much time to maditate.
Not enough Time to deflect...
in this dreaded Sigh-Linz.
No more halting on to smoke wrings
which flouted zaftly in the Herr...
flouted over the lost reminds
of the dire, deported Deed.