If the promise holds, so long as it lasts, it is
and I want what the saltpetre–lotus of our towering
breath may give us
the starry crux of a chafing
between two glances, slipped, like a message
one continent and the entire night
the white wafer-thin glimpse of your smile between snow and oblivion

If the foothold 'Achilles' is still, the heel in iron
is what we fight for
the slender flaw of our laughter through giants' afternoons
and in the moment I turn to you
in the gunpowder–pool of this heat
hammered between your smile and the night
and hung to like wreckage in words between silence
is this promise, of us, alchemised:

After the revolution and the rain I will be here for you
After the broken cocoon and the war I will be here for you
After the desolation and the psalm I will be here for you
After the victory and the defeat I will be here
After 'there' and after 'after' I will be
After here and I will
After and I
After and
After

If is your thumbprint, and rainwater in hoofmarks:
dragooned into nothing, how can we fight that uniform
space without names and against which
even Paris and Achilles must be seen as lovers
and the arrow bind them, loose them
but with a war the further promise of ourselves
thrown in a cloud, like petals or confetti
making a sizzling gift of flight
and lightning a model, if lightning were horses

Copyright © Michael Ayres, 2003