I thought I'd lost you. But you said I'm imbued

in the fabric of things, the way that wax lost from batik shapes the pattern where the dye won't take I make the space around you,

as so allow you shape. And always you'll feel the traces of that wax soaked far into the weave: the air around your gestures,

the silence after you speak. That's me, that slight wind between your hand and what you're reaching for, chair and paper, book or cup:

that close, where I am: between where breath ends, air starts

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light

The end was quick and bitter Slow and sweet was the time between us, slow and sweet were the nights when my hands did not touch one another in despair but in the love of your body which came between them.

And when I entered you it seemed then that great happiness could be measured with the precision of sharp pain. Quick and bitter.

Slow and sweet were the nights. Now is bitter and grinding as sand - “Lets be sensible” and similar curses.

And as we stray further from love we multiply words, words and sentences so long and orderly. Had we remained together we could have become a silence