You fool around with fire, poet, like you’re doing a crossword puzzle. You don’t know what it is, fire. To be in an empty world, floating, like a piece of ash, there is no-one, no-one, longing for your dead, that is cold. They made a bonfire out of books and danced like cannibals. Did you reach in to save yours, and char your hands black? I did. The people are cold. They weep for home. I weep at night, in the fetal position. My burns will not heal. I dream of the cordwood stacked up neatly, ready for the fire. It should have been me. It should have been me, the cordwood, burning so quickly, So hot, incandescent. The cordwood was love. The fire, the ash, the smoke hanging thickly, this is not a puzzle to be solved. I dreamed of a shepherd in a green pasture, calling to his lambs, I wanted to be called, I wanted the shepherd to take away my wanting. I wanted my mater in the cool blue water, She was beautiful. Her golden hair was flowing.

I loved you in Venice, Your glittering face, The canals opaque, Redolent of…what? Secrets, Buried in silt, Small bones and gold. The scent of money, Too heavy, like lilies, Flows in and out with the tide. Love, death, decay, Transformation - That silt is glorious stuff When it's left On the delta, And don’t forget the moon, The mover of this tale, Moving the water, Moving the blood, The salty stuff that we live in And are. My balcony doors are ajar Giving on to the fetid canal I adore. A violin caressing, plaintive, Confessing near an open window - Notes fall legato Down a shaft of moonlight, And my roses - exquisite, Just past their moment, Drop petals vermillion Onto the gleaming floor. In their slow drift And grace, A meaning I trace. I know you are out there In the city tonight. There's a hot breeze Moving over the sea From Tunis and Tyre, From Hippo and Carthage, It speaks to the roses In a language, below language, Between the breaths of wind – I've only just heard it. It's like tongues of fire, It’s spoken at birth. I was shaken When I heard it in your voice, Then your cheekbones, your hair, Your back were curved like runes I read in Braille. Your being is a portal, A hieroglyph I have to touch. I’ve counted the tides, The moons, the murders, Made note of the stars Breathed the motes of these African breezes. I know your crimes, Your betrayals, I've seen how you glitter - Mordant torchlight on bridges, Lamplight which flickers, Rubies in doorways, Alleyways which end at a wall. It's not supposed to be climbed For beyond is the sea, Dark, immense and deep, Where black boats whisper In the language of bones.

Blue bridges dream of houseboats Paint fading in the afternoon sun. Dilapidated moorings, wooden structures Defy gravity at the last moment. The river, sinuous, soiled, Its banks made of mud, Longs for the incoming tide. The people are drawn To that curving line, That glimmer of coolness – Barred, by concrete and chainlink. Their plaster boxes Are full of devices Yet they yearn for the water’s edge, To stand in the rushes, Wash clothes like Pharoah’s daughter, Find Moses.

Lilith, your hair falling down Sheaves of corn Your hair spun to gold From three roomfuls of flax. Your hair-handfuls of gold, Sheaves of corn, Streaming down, Sheaves of gold, Falling onto the floor of the room, The light of the moon streaming down. The gold that fed through my fingers, Three roomfuls of flax I found when I opened the door. Three roomfuls I fed Through my fingers-fistfulls of gold, The light of the moon Falling onto the floor, And the crow who flew By the window and said: Lilith, your hair falling down Shall be gold.