Melancholy

there were the bones of us damp impressions left wild-eyed on still-warm bedsheets we lay scattered throughout the day and rehearsed four-cornered vows in the silence of immediacy we didn't know what to say then and we don't know now but the sky is blue today and there is magic when poems are air-brushed by unseen hands, heard as falling rain on cobblestone by some, felt like the melancholy of dying stars by others Yo Yo Ma draws his bow, I catch my breath I am enthralled by the world, its savage heat.