The Greek, the cowboy,
and the soldier know,
that what we do next
began long ago.

I made the books on my shelves
straighten their posture,
I dusted lamps and practiced jokes.

I bought new things
for you to sit on
and next to.
I wondered which fruits were your favorite.

I suddenly
grew clean
and brave,
because I knew that you were coming.

I love the way you bubble,
but never overflow,
thunder like a fountain
aiming only at yourself.

But I want to break your balance.
I need to make you splash.

Empty boxes bellow
with very violins.

The ones I love whisper,
mostly out of tune.

Being right
is not the sole
of not being
wrong.

Step softer, my friend.
There are people underfoot.

I was born the calm disciple
of a tall templed God,
breathing straight lines,
walking narrow paths.

Now,
in my newer years,
wild things call me by name,
mossy nymphs,
grassy laughing.

I get stirred
curious
boiled
by the trills
of night creatures
and by the snaking lines
of rivers
on maps.

I think I wanna do something scary
in the woods.

Why is Death always scowling?
Does he hate the life he takes,
or the death he gives?

Love turns tragic in Persia,
in Venice,
in China,
in graveyards,
in movies,
in poems.

Love gets deadly
in candles tall as men.

Only after we fail
to bring it back
from where it's gone,
do we ever think
to join it
where it's at.