Your expressive brown eyes
with their faint tinge of hurt,

on a blue-and-white island in the Aegean,
on a beach honeycombed with caves,

one summer in your reckless youth—
no clothes but a caftan, a rock for your roof.

Lulled by breezes, rocked by waves,
you danced in the sea, water sparkled on your skin.

In the film that your friend made of you,
you seemed more alive than I will ever be.

There are other films—yours, too—
all the films are now your ghosts.

Of films that took shape from your editing touch,
I am drawn to the Tibetan throat singers,

how they trained their vocal cavities to produce unearthly tones,
like the growl of a bull united with the song of a child.

Watching, listening, I am shaken to the core
by the tantric voice vibrating in rhythm with the universe.