Could I have gone on forever in the
shadows with you, in the mosaic of
night broken with our desires, jagged
with blind care and the work of twin dreamers?
Sometimes I think I might have. Sometimes doubt
Pranced like a silly horse far from my mind,
A tiny thing in the landscape of art
We were creating for the time I entered.
My sisters were poets of the image
That put the lamp in my hand, but I framed
the thought before they came for their visit.
I couldn’t go on with just four senses.
I could no longer sculpt our bodies out
of the stone we weren’t permitted to see.