There is a golden, molten, fast-flowing river,
the words in my mind, the minted-silver whispers at my lips,
already dying to an echo at conception.
Between them and the poor page, a kind of soft,
seismic happening has taken, shaken, panicked my hand,
and my pen tarantellas to the insane bongo-drumming
of my pulse, as the idea of you mutes me.
The music has your AMDG monogrammed on it,
and my inarticulate response scrawled
at the foot of the manuscript – beautiful, beautiful…






















39 old applause
