At night we approached the loss of the other
Not merely a thought, but the possibility of being… lost in the abyss,
So we retreated into our sacred place, where the pale of past daylight
Faintly shone between our lips,
in a present kiss.
Artifice light shines not through skin pressed together.
Neither can the hope of arriving provide the eternal power
That places us in a relationship of infinite mystery.
It is only the coming and going of daylight that illuminates
this present hour.
I can’t speak for your desire, but the tears you shed were a sign
A sign of deep presence that compared impending death and my seeking of it
For a long time I have misplaced food, coffee, and cigarette as satisfaction,
That somehow satisfaction is consumption,
a life lived in the world of It.
But in the presence of you, and the tears you shed, were a presence of Thou,
Not an object to satisfy but a subject to mystify, an infinite radiation glowing from the sun,
That could never run out and that leaves its glow on every object of my world,
Magically manifesting all consumables to a body not yet done.
Like a ray of light, or the spring air that we breathe
The presence of Thou seeps through all life and extended matter,
A background without name, which brings innumerous joys
That gives moments of pleasure that dissipate like chatter.
For years I have understood desire from a place of lack, but now abundance
Shining sun, sufficient rain, bikes to ride, and family around me,
Desire is no longer objects to satisfy, but a Subject to occupy
And the tears you shed expressed my deep misunderstanding
of what it is to be.
The breath of filtered air disguises a false hope of approval
The leisure of nicotine-fueled fog is not mystery but disguise
Of resting between moments of mental labor, a sign of success,
Which, like the fog, is swallowed up by background air,
As night is by sunrise.
I get what I want, but I still haven’t found what I am looking for,
For to be in such a desire is the end without end
Nineteen years of acquaintance, seventeen years beside me,
Thirty more years of otherness can be our godsend.
Raymond Klassen - Ideals and Identities 