At ten, I gave you a few words
And returned to you at fifteen
To ask about them.

You said you’re keeping them
In your teeming tresses
Hidden as the meaning of
Scriptures or as flowers
A widow kisses in her
Desolate dream, away from
The glare of galling daytime.

Again, at twenty, I came back
To get back the words whose
Ownership was almost forgotten.

I will return them
When you return, you said,
Leaving me in the quicksand
Of a quivering mystery…

One night splashing with
tears of torn skies,
I was returning from the
Graveyard, hands full of your
Ashes your words or mine
Are breathing…