Such as poetry,
silver tongued prayer,
peering from the corner
of the eye,
the great disappearance
of my likeness
from the city lights.
Who, on the farthest edge of town,
left quietly in the night so many times,
and choking, would revoke her eye
with great determination.
Who, drunken, had fell beneath a willow,
could not regain already wild composure
and so properly burned the thing
all the way down.
Who listened as a knocked apart
meeting of two walls would listen
to the party, so far away,
cloaked by many handshakes.
And thought then that lovers and toys
were boring. Medicine is boring,
and especially art
Maybe which was too wise
not to be written in a holy book.
(no one would read it)
But there was a heavy thing
too far away to notice, or mind.
so that I may learn a gentleness
denied me by portraits of beauty.
so that these hands that I have never really used
may be put to the labor of your body.
and be forgiving of my artistry
for it is trite, and cheap, and callous.
Please, do this one thing
so that I may finally pass into dreaming
because there is nothing more that I want
than to slide away into a deep forget.
From me to you.
In the scarce hours you permit,
or between laced fingers
(which is rarer now than ever)
is the fool that carried your name
upon silver tongue
over the gate,
up the back way,
trembling at the chamber door,
or in the thoroughfare.
Is a little boy rend
like your proud tattered gown.
Is a butchers hand rend you,
though lean as you are.
That boy is still here,
clumsy limb and letter.
He doesn't know his place.
probably couldn't if he tried.
Would it be here, of all places,
that my precluded kinship
find a higher meaning?
And if so, then what is it at all
that some sort of recompense
be made for the multiplicity of my failures?
I would not be found by lamplight,
like some curious drachma: warm
Only acknowledged, set back
into the mix of various things
that are within your pocket.
Some day recalled, maybe,
but for what I have earned you.
Never for my presence,
So I should leave now
and stare into a thousand bur oaks
that line such a poorly December road
and notice only my reflection.
Though, if I am more bent
than even the lowliest branch,
where would this lead?
and I would rather be with you
than drifting, bemused, through the infinite gestures
of french women in Montmartre,
or bathing in the afternoon sun of a Maltese shore.
You are a spell of fainting into the estuary of dream,
ten fold the intimacy of Joyce, or *******,
and much less arduous to be sure;
but also just as mad.
Often It seems so ridiculous
for me to compare you to a vast number of things,
except maybe peeling an orange
because you are equally as sultry
If I write to pleasure
would it be mine or some other
formless, wanting, dripping
can't be gratified.
Or should it be mine
In this room.
On this bed.
By this page.
In nowhere dreams
like a thin spider web
on a flickering porch lamp.
Should I even try to?