closer, too close

beginnings, it’s said
have no spoken language
being led by the hand
through his head, slideshow style
long, unruly hair fell on his face
sighing wearily in his embraces

we recognize our own rejected thoughts
as sudden as the rapture
there is no one else left now
in this ocean of perfume
the burned thatch, the ruined stonework
it is dark, it is ancient, and it is deep.

what happened next was almost silent
pale blue mornings failed to deepen
reducing blacks to greys 
shutters banging in the wind
no trace, no suggestion 
it was just another tuesday

never again to return
never again to return