Imprint

There are indications of you
etched forever in my heart
and while Mr. Cohen says – my favourite bard –
that true love leaves no traces, I think, in this case
he was wrong
they show like ripples in a pond, or water-lapped sand on the shore
now made to stone by time and so much erroneous distance
I speak your name to the wind
let it carry and wonder if you hear that appeal
and overture to what follows, an imprecation of a touch
Mr. Cohen says that the mist leaves no scar
on the green hill
but he was wrong
scars tattoo my body in patterns and lines
some of them are yours
carved in memory and unwavering blade
your head on my chest and my hand in your hair
those too have left indelible impressions
in the tar pit that I call myself
singing with my incorporeal voice
soft ‘gainst the frailties of fate
True love leaves traces
Traces
Traces