Like a cigarette
in a hand
she has left a trail of gesture behind.
She has claimed
that I love
only in the past tense,
that only too late do I hear her voice
in objects left behind.
The stuff of connection
is matter too. Despite the hopes
our dazzled eyes arouse,
it is not light.
And only light does not age,
only light does not die.
Because (this is science—
not Buddhism:) only light
runs at lightspeed.
I reach for analogies:
The late Roman empire
each evening marked with sunblood
(saints dotting the landscape,
pinned like butterflies;
halos, here and there).
They too were like me
(are like me: tense is treacherous now),
hopeful as seed. Light is
the only water left to us.
© 2001 Jody Azzouni