John Daniel Thieme

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in your light, had I learned to love, herein your beauty, could I speakknowing of this space close withinas the breath held inside a garden rose, there—there is no time

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To forget would mean the things we never knewhad never waited to be known, never waitedto be forgotten, had never been; waitingbeneath the long dead starsin time

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Thisis not the same river at my fingertips. There are no paths, no sunken roadsfamiliar in the forest, by which we canretrace our steps, by which we can escapeby which we can reclaim and return, or hear the child’s song running in the timothy

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I wish to go down under the waters—the cool, crystalline waters that I knew, where allthat is, here, existing, isis only to be lost within the susurrationsand the rumours of water and the evening starwe wait for

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the sorrows of the heart yearn to be erased, for one final atonementfinite and forgetting and whole—but time in its preservingwill not permit forgetting; destroyingonly when we can no longer begor argue with time to preserve the brief benisonsa few moments longer than our sins