Suicide

Forests float – this is not how destiny
unravels; somewhere a molecule shifts
course, its star-crossed twin repels
and the universe loses focus. Chimes
ebb louder in the ears; shade-less lamps
on streets blink like falling stars,
like the night sky dusted its windows
and all mysteries through the glass
became visible. Then love arrived
like a Palladian horse on wings,
its rider bearing flute and flowers
the colour of sea-born melancholy –
like leaves de-stemming from marrow.
This story is about a man who merged,
crushed his heart in his palms to seeds;
galloped on rings of Saturn to liquid
cosmos – pool of stars – black like she –
on face of the moon he found her wilting,
handed his seeds to her and said:
it isn't love that survives. We do.

First published at Immagine and Poesia in celebration of Dylan Thomas Day.