a poem for an old lover

what magic is this 

that can draw such visceral glory, 

     glittering and scarlet,

from the scars of these bitter old wrecks

we carry ourselves around in

the peal of an ancient song

pounding in our ears

tugging at my skirts

what magic is this

this pounding and tugging

what magic is this

pouring forth like a river

     melting

we pour forth 

cascading over the roughs

we make a waterfall