This view will seep into you like ground water from an artesian well,
will filter like an aquifer the gritty remains
of your daily grind.
One sweet birdsong — no, not just one, but the calls of many,
in the thrushes
by the shore…
There is no heart beating in me,
not in actuality.
I am the long undead.
I have no breath
When I see your beauty.
But there you are on the stair,
With your long white neck
To tempt me,
And I cannot see past
the flash of your jeweled eyes.
The catch of your own breath when you notice my gaze, the heat of your unaware longing for
these give my body memory of sentience far gone,
echoing heartbeats of
when I was capable of love.