What? The tip of a cloud and the tip of your tongue:
pale blue Chinese doors from A Touch of Zen

but did they go through? I can’t remember.

What? I wanted to say: I wanted…
What was it you said, instead of what you wanted to say?

I want to travel. I want to see fireflies.

We kiss on the threshold of memory.
I kiss you as if I can set you alight,

burn you to nothing, you won’t need to do anything more.

But what? What was it? A haze, a soft rehydration of water sprinklers…
Humid clouds near the horizon, piled like damp muslin:

To go places. You know, I’ve never seen fireflies.

Still, though, what was it? I was right on the edge of it…
Why would it never quite resolve itself

into perfection? Why is it never quite clear?

You put my body out like a light, to a sound of lawnmowers
droning like bombers, blew it out

when the curtains drifted sand and shadows in summer.

Yet… There’s still something left to burn.
What is it? In the ashes of Troy, Troy again, Troy the second and the third,

Troy the fifteen millionth…

Is love so destructive? No, not at all.
You just have to realise

what it means to see fireflies.