or a dream I woke up
drowning.
Now
A Place Called September
A Time Called the Rhône
won’t heed my calling him
through some drift of date, dreaming
what is late,
close
my rope-bridge.
But I won’t, in brutal fact
give up on the sink-tests
in beds of municipal pools
where my word-words
bob. Still
on rare occasions,
I see clouds, hear
the sky
—light, water, dust
his way toward meaning farther
away
his crawl
through stone dark
what he made room of,
rooms
and one night joined them
the cruelest month ebblessly below
le Pont Mirabeau
joined them unto each other
a passage between the bones
Across Beyond 