If we must relearn tenderness,
I will ask you to forget all things
permanent. Have the maps we keep
on our palms rubbed off so that trees
stay unmarked, stones remain unturned,
and geographies of good luck, love,
and rain become uncharted parts
of the universe. If we must insist
 
on warmth, I will ask you to forget
all things that permit forgiveness
so light and prayer don't die on us
like fingernails, promises don't grow
like sleep — unhurried, unnoticed —
and stars don't dare fall without
meaning or magic. Come the end of it
 
all, I hope to find you scavenging
for sunflowers on the outskirts
of a rainbow, wearing nothing
but your wings and dented halo.
I hope we never run out of things
to say to each other. Say, how
we have come to understand
what the world is made of after
 
all — Earth and all its complexities,
heaven and all its sadness, splendour
and all things that make for mystery.
Listen. If you listen close enough
to the clockwork of olden love songs
you will hear its metal pulse beating
steadily against our bodies, against
the weather, against everything under
 
the sun, as though its many hands
keep count of every second we spend
before we come to our senses. If
we really must come to our senses,
I will ask you to forget all things
beautiful. If you ask for a reason,
I will tell you – I have lost
 
my reflection in the wreckage
of water. If you ask for help,
I will say — let dewfall settle
at the tips of your lashes.
If you ask for consolation, I will
have you know – our shadows press
through the gaps of stained-glass
windows. We are quick and strange
like the beginning of sorrow.