last words for vernawan

where is my art?
she walks away sloughing a silent garment

O well of the creative
O well, O well

a storm line like a limb of the world-tree
swings over the flat skin of life on earth
thoughtless and crackling with transmissions

where is my art?
scratching hard, dry dirt moaning up for rain
in a castdown halo of light without origin

I pull the brittle bucket to my chest
and splinter my lip on her wordless rim

O well of the creative
be here soon, be here now O well

rainbows on the cusp of night
and her naked legs arched over my lips
and my lips on her wordless rim

O Darja, O lover,
O well and my slack rope ready for rain

I realized today that all the old dragons
that ever were lived
and slept between the thighs of men

neither here nor there,
where is my art?

she was in the lightning that danced
while my camera was still awakening
and refused to come again

she slept in the cup
in the rainy season

the fruits of the night-tree wink untouchable
and in my bones I hear a far-off autumn
now only a creak, a sway
and a want