I have never known whether I were dead or alive:
Empowered by an energy at youth
Which was lost in age, the sun descending
Into night, soft lips touching my skin –
The rose of Eden still opening for
Remembrance at the cusp of misunderstanding.
When the pools of evening contain
All reflection, undisturbable, images dry
Into the air, and become the negatives
Of a life half-lived, and the beaming moon
Tells long stories of the endless night.