73

April Repetens

There comes a rare timeless hour when the stone walls break,

the doors fly open, and the sun soars up a fluid sky,

and like some antique god I walk out

into earth’s eternal spring.

Only remembrance preserves in the heart its primordial truth;

that free otherness lives beyond report.

One says only, I was there. I know.

But then for a little while it is enough

if back in the breathless dungeon

a small cricket repeat its two-note thought

of if by night your unknown hand touch mine.