Anam Cara

Selves

From where she is

he seems singular,

clear as the silver

longing of the moon

filling the memory

of an empty ruin,

still hidden, despite

the hunger of light

and night’s dark preference

for burnt fragment.

He appears to be

relieved of the seeping

dross of nuance

no one but the stone

can name him now.

She grew somehow

haunted by the continuous

blue of his crevice voice

knew soon that a complete cry

even if he could make it

might leave nothing.

She rages, forgets

dreams of the ancestral

ocean coming

pouring over

the horizon.