Synesthesia (for Tanya)

There is music below freezing point,
in glacial heart and damnation
above and beyond the traditional homelands
of fireflies and satellites
tripping elegantly
over dismantled dimensions.
I am talking of melting here,
of body disappearing into cloud and harvest
starlight and smoke-ring
leaving behind question-trail and exclamation,
and in the splash-less slip of identity and union,
the vision of a glacier
from beneath its surface.
I am talking of an unravelling
of love's immemorial riddle
as colours
that slipped
from the underside of silence:
the flight of melody,
a perfumed root,
a knotted calendar,
genealogies made of amber
and a whisper that said 'you'
but was heard as 'I'.