Time whispered when he had eyes,
a deliberation of things,
songs, stories, a string of beads
islander made in equatorial days;
leaves, loaves, salad-making,
great roasts’ sizzling songs,
an unhurrying, yieldless time
of games, ghosts, gobs of things.
How when sentences finally came to be,
he read Cappy Ricks and the Green Pea Pirates,
his eye on the page, my ear on his tongue,
caesura was a bite of beer, a drink of cheese,
turning words like the roasts he made,
ever the savory succulent tongue,
but gone page wordless now.
Now! Now! Now Time strikes!
Hurricanes, lightning, days are crunching,
night is no longer a magician's pail of stars
flung as sand on dark skies. The eyes are
closed, the mouth; echoes so long old,
when such songs cease their sounds.
Sprung from his loins wanting to be,
self-torn from his arms at some piece
of boyhood, I now remember earless,
wordless, the touch when lovely young,
and I know I roam forever
in the darkness of his eyes.