The Flame

Surely it is not meant . . . this warmth of hands
kindling in me a breath of pure content,
this red-filled room that holds a love that understands . . .
it is not meant.

I came to you through savage night,
driving the motor-bike of my head
out of the road-blur, into reflected light
of your kind thoughts instead.

You came to me . . . the innocent flame
of dance and drink and food and rest
love-spiring, catching, creating the mind’s, the body’s name
that I know, you know best.

Now that I go (my life is forced to go)
that flame and heaven-similar intent
irradiates the lost and travelling dark. Yet I know, I know . . .
it is not meant.