...a kind of conversation that needs no tongue...
— David Malouf, An Imaginary Life
Shuffling in bearskin trousers, his mind
Each hard breath shaping new lyrics —
Love, once his own witty game, is now dragging
Him after her face, and far over
The limes of his mapped world, the wide
Until, reaching that long-grassed bank, he morphs
Into the wild,
Singing, Beautiful, careless, sky-eyed,
Their tracks become measureless motifs of un-
Wind rising, night massing, last sunlight
Riffing the river.
(Paul Christian Stevens — published in The Raintown Review, Spring 2009)