A String of Lights for Brian
We read and you left at the end of the night
to sleep in the roots of the sky,
to climb a string of lights
through the ashes of the highest trees.
We reveled toward connection
on this island of cypress,
we threw the blue turrets and glass domes of black air,
you filled the empty ceilings
with the art of delirious irrepressible laughter.
And now suddenly we grieve for you
before the echoes mourned
in a crush of pulse,
I write unanswered essential and purposeless words,
I write smoke and goodbye to you, my friend.
Book of Embers
You lift a book of embers
from the rushlight
with an unhasting gesture
like a swan’s neck,
you look at the flame
brighten your visage
and brighten the movement
of a new body
inside your white tunic,
you raise pages of language
to the moon seal
your mouth conjures
like a mirror on the door.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, appeared at the Origami Poems Project.
