If I write now:
‘I want to live
and I want to love
and still see you and the sun’
then later they’ll just
shrug and say:
‘The poor thing had no idea’
Better to speak of my premonition of our dying
Then at least someone will nod and say:
‘How prophetic!
He knew about it all the time’
But then premonitions of death
always come true in the end
just as the great rain prayers
of some native tribe
are never unanswered
because they dance the rain dance
day in and day out
till it really begins to rain again
So I declare in writing
being of sound mind:
‘You won’t have to wait so very long
for my longing is already beginning
to lose faith in itself
and I am often tired
in the middle of the day
And if I open my heart
perhaps my love will fall out
like a brittle
pressed four-leaf clover
Not long now
till I come visit you
as a pebble or a fly
no one recognises’
memoryhouse 