You whisper through the nerves
Or is this the night’s texture?
Or both? Your language, the wind,
Talking as an idea – immediate,
Chemical, the way genius subverts
History, the way lovers speak,
A biology of movements that poets
Seek to translate through music.
For all your disguises,
You’re revealed in coldness,
The way silence brushes a forest
Or the way the sea gushes
Against the sadness of wet sand.
Mystery is your favourite weapon.
Piercing, loud, but always elusive
Always discovering the next death.