Pillow Talk

 Pillow Talk
 
 
 All night while we slept
 moisture from our two bodies
 condensed on the cold glass
 and trickled erratically down.
 now, in the bright morning,
 on the white window ledge, we see
 blobs of water filled with sunlight,
 each one contained in its surface
 as if in a seamless,
 exquisitely fine polythene bag.
 
 
 And soon, she tells me, slipping
 into her Gaian/pantheistic mode,
 water that was oncc part of us
 will be taken up in a kind
 of vaporous ascension
 to circle and fall on the earth.
 Lions in parchd savannas
 will lap it up.  It will flow
 through the limbs of trees
 and the gills of salmon
 nosing through white water.
 
 
 Long after we’re both dead
 it will hang as mist above the hills
 ad trickle down the skins
 of children playing by the sea ..
 
 
 Then, drawing closer, I say,
 What kind of immortality is that?
 Who cares if every atom of us
 is cycled and recycled until time ends
 or the gods whose dream we are
 turn over in their sleep?
 Matter is meaningless.  it’s form
 that makes us what we are.
 We’re like knots in string, love,
 when we’re undone, where have we gone?
 
 
 Bob Rogers
 
 
 Caroline writes... this poem is so typically Bob, such wonderful thoughts.  If we ever have a memorial reading for him, this is the one.