So that all good things would come back to me,
my gibberish and lies bestowed upon you a new sense of self.
But, once there was a clean moment,
and the words were real and I knew you then.
No, I donít imagine that there will be another
night beside Shanty Hollow
at least, not like the night
when we inhaled the drunken smoke of invisible gravity
and the Corvus corax that was the night
folded us within its hidden intellect
and subtle persuasion.
Down beside the waters,
the kind that (as though hidden among hills was not enough)
you knew without a doubt were deeper than they looked,
we mingled scents and souls.
I didnít know until then that a laugh could echo
its laugh down the night,
and off the hidden walls of caves.
Again, Time, the great improv artist,
endows that place with a unique stamp of passing life,
and it is drunk once and never to be had again,
the geography never to breathe as it breathed on that moon,
and I reap only, but precious, a fading feel of graveled shore,
a boat slipping beneath the waves only to be rescued at the last possible
unknown things rustling the bushes beneath unseen trees,
and my bitter-smooth opiate tongue.