In the beginning, words
tiptoe so as not to
startle the light. An unfold-
ing bud, told "blossom," col-
lapses inwards.

Gripping the ropes of dawn,
my feet still ruddy with
chill, I smile. You, clumsy torch-
bearer, paint a reason,
a horizon.

I cannot say your name.
Until you wand away
the stars, I will hold my sus-
pension in silence lest
you drop the flame

as you did today,
trying to strike a match
so artfully you broke it
and dropped the cigarette.
It was our shy-

ness that kept us in place,
each thinking the other
had stopped to turn there, both wrong;
then parting, laughs exchanged:
silly solace.