I did a little to tidy my digital archives today and just now found this fragment/outline of a poem. I intended to write a great deal more for it, but it seems pretty likely I won’t be getting around to it. It is from no later than January 17, 2012.

good day, I have been waiting ages to see you,
through grass,
through brothers,
through tv screens,
   [situation at 14] even while memento moris on black tendril once a day,
      even in the dim daylight of the dull material world
         peopled by unlovely one-sixty-fourth satyrs
      where I would clutch my own chest in small lonely rooms and hold back sobs
   and even while my heart took over the screaming,
   [change] as night fell, I found myself in darkness dark as the sun is bright [change] until my screaming ripped flames into the torches of the lamplights
      [situation at 18]
         [where at 18] lonely street at dusk in the city of god,
            [who] who was [____] in the [____]
      [change] and then a scimitar of fire struck the moon
            insert full
      [change] and I was shattered by holy cannonfire from the moon
         [situation at 22]
            [where] the island of [ ] in the sea of lifetime
         [change] sailed out
      [change] beyond the black iron prisonbars
   [change] and out past the limits of Babylon
[change] into your green and swiftly-flowing waters

and even while you just told me to awake and realize that I am now and have ever been on a river [this “awake!” ties in nicely with the meeting the person and saying good day. it puts the whole poem in that eternal moment.]

[if you’re throwing the porch in there, have your penfinale be an analogy between all the joys of life even in pain and the delicious tastes of the potluck, chocolate bitter dark, ]

and perhaps a rose the color of fire floating on the surface [somewhere inconsequential? on the infinite run of the river], not different or separate, but lovelier, and through your windy pinhole iris a window into a world of molten numbers and algorithms, where cauldrons bubble over with lips, language, and light, still floating on, where we are all on the course bonded, circumscribed by elocution, caught now and ever in a self-tasting babbling tide, free never to escape it, free only to broaden and deepen it, passing other travelers, passing power cords between us, under the ageless tired bronzeness of the inverted period that is the sun hanging in the smoldering sky to say