for Sekou Sundiata
Though my bones be crushed to fine white powder
(& blinded eyes will never find the light),
I search for ancient rhythms in your arms
& wonder (as loving renews this play)
what cure there is for pulsing myth & terror.
Do not wonder at my fears: we can love!
The night folds in upon itself like grace
& starry fragments penetrate the air
like old salvations that pulse too late
from distant places.
Upward in the night,
cold hands clasped to keep the fire out, we flash --
like grace across the rim of the world.
Dennis M. Gaughan
Back to the Astrophysicist's Tango Partner Speaks