your little voice Over the wires came leaping and i felt suddenly dizzy With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers wee skipping high-heeled flames courtesied before my eyes or twinkling over to my side Looked up with impertinently exquisite faces floating hands were laid upon me I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing up Up with the pale important stars and the Humorous moon dear girl How i was crazy how i cried when i heard over time and tide and death leaping Sweetly your voice
Moon, blow your light my way, but don't cut my time
Let me dream just a little longer while my eyelids shine in the dark starlight
Let the ceremony end slow back in my old home, not in a cold forest near the sea
I want to see again those three rivers that flow together and listen to a woman singing to a child in her mild mannered way
But in spite of the night and my wishes something keeps creeping past me in my sleep like numbers of smoke
It was you, dark woman, walking across the room bare footed turning on the air conditioner in the winter, a pair of scissors in the folds of your robe.
Once I spent a winter with a poem; everyday in the woods at work I would say it, never writing a word until I had it down in my mind; it became what I called a floater, a work song, a chant, until it sounded just right and undramatic, and then I wrote it down in the dirt with my boots without changing a word leaving it there for the birds and the worms and the roots.
“The whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano key.”*
to O. F.
Maybe your soul is a kite right now as I am writing on the kitchen table and winter orchids are earnestly blooming, May you be peaceful in the final womb Dostoyevsky wrote about you, the humble one -
There is a hole now in the shape of morning I can't find you smelling pears anymore. Only my eyes filled with dust over your casket You hid your dreams so deep, devouring oblivious dreams She poisoned her milk and that's how you learned to deny all the streets you never went. spring sun used to find you listening to the solitude of trees, while the seasons were recycling your shyness. Somehow you didn't notice the light slowly descending into the green chaos, or just the old mundane hatred, the embrace of a disavowing (d)evil.
- this poem could be full of the noisy blindness of life of crushed dignity and helplessness I want to find the right letters to write only two impossible words: pure heart-