Towards the end of our knowing one another
that infamous whisky-hour conversation ceased
its looping flight and fell from out of the clouds,
becoming more a string of painful retreats
from the same old mountain, with no guide
to navigate a way between the boulders,
the only choice to keep on going down.
But then I remember you telling me how
you always really preferred the plateau,
the big-sky possibility of the high moors
or the wide-open silence of the desert,
with the comfort of its horizons. How it
bathed you in a bottomless pool of space.
Where did it all disappear to? The quiet
sine-wave of your voice circling my ear?
Sharing your untold versions of the darkness,
pointing them with the tired light of our stars?