(For Ai)

As lute notes flutter, the pen Hovers over these pages uncertain Of what should be said now Or what should have been said Then. Moon gains every night, And ravishes the cautious black Snowfall with its white fingers.

The distance between my voice And your body is muffled with Silence. Ink seeps, the nib enters Flesh of the page. How does It matter if I drink and laugh Or weep and drink, in this language I don’t understand but use to write?

This night is a grand oak Of silence with it’s spry Branches veining this still Beating heart, futile heart.