The Piano, Jane Campion (1993)
May it be as it was in our rhapsodies.
Tethered to you,
oneiric assemblage of sea salt
ivory: you playing me
as I imagine the gods have,
cavorting on their mountain of stone.
Forgive me. This our default
condition: each of us versions of the other’s
own making. Call me melancholia. Whatever
you like, love, awash in you—call me
the horizon, a noose’s useless slack line,
call me whatever name
the pacing beast between us goes by.
I open myself for no other. What are we
if not vowels of thirst—
what are we when our hour has come.
in tongues for which we have none.