I Remember

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By late July,
the summer’s wet land
had laid its trees
in the mire
where you were
a kind of martyrdom,
always rescuing one
thing or another
end for the end-all
of this dream that
crackled the filament
in your blood that summer
when the earth
to the sliding sea
slid for the sea
and the spiders had sprung
from the wet mass
to this new kind
of cocooning
spun from the crash
of your phantom touch
I burgeoned
like a blanket of poppies
stinging such distances
in a blood’s beat—
we played this game
like tight wires at a
frenzied vibrato
till it was a picture
screen of stars
the moon unrobed
from the bowl of the night
that you kissed, saying:
“remember”