A

First of the alphabet, my tongue has pondered
visions of fluent sources, sheer beginnings,
white acres and infinities of silence
strewn in a wake behind us, brine of absence,
so that the language sails merely with A
to ride it, what we salvaged from disaster
seemingly dry and water-tight hereafter.

Bright of the desolate, my eyes have wandered
softly across the breathing of your body
long in the dark of night and doom of waking,
hoping to weigh the coolness of your graces,
needing to catch their fragrance in the mind
that somewhere speech be wrought of it tomorrow,
my mouth awash the genius of such morning.