I.
They are so raw, too young to know themselves, overcome with
desire, so ready to reach into their lives and pull everything inside out and
test their intelligence against the ice of time, so ready to dive into the
burning lake, so ready to abandon allegiance to placid parents, sullen
siblings, crass convention. They are so raw, so flawed, one who loves but
doesnt know it yet, one chosen to be loved, by forces they will never
explain, the mismatched pair they foam and start to form, amazed to fit
together for that moment. I love them both equally now, I see them sit together
there on the edge.
II.
He ponders rhyme and rhythm and jots phrases in a notebook
that fills with lines that make no sense, syllables that slide and bang into
each other, words that worry themselves into flattened shapes in the margins
left by other words. He builds a forest, sees himself walking toward it,
overwhelmed by its dark green immensity, its shadows inviting him to lose
himself in its blackness. He knows that once among the trees there is no way
out and will never be and accepts that finality as an imperative of his life,
the first thing that defines him as a unique being, that he must present
himself fully, be led where he is led, reach out blindly where he reaches, and
fall where he falls. Darkness closes about, he kneels and digs his hands
through moist loam, and finds a window.
III.
Almost quiet, late afternoon clouds put all summer into shade,
the storm settles in, thunder distant but distinct, and they hear their
heartbeats blending to make one thudding as they grab for breath, as they try
to make sense of their bodies. Time lingers for just a second, waits with
little patience as the instinct of junction brings all into being, a compulsion
of electrical charges and molecules whose random energy must discharge. They
reach, each to each, skin to skin, tongue to tongue, toward exactly what they
do not know.