Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
        coupling the ends of streets
        to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
        put out the neon shapes
        that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
        Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
        From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
        detail upon detail,
        cornice upon facade,

reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
        (Where it has slowly grown
        in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
        trembles and stands again,
        pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
        "Boom!" and the exploding ball
        of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
        turn in their sleep and feel
        the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
        Along the street below
        the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers.  The water dries
        light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
        of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
        scattered or grouped cascades,  
        alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
        you will dine well
        on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
        Scourge them with roses only,
        be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
        whose face is turned
        so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted.  No.  I mean
        distorted and revealed,
        if he sees it at all.

In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,
And pain has exhausted every limb—
  The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name—
  The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and child forsake the dead—
  The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small—
  But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

The old wooden steps to the front door
where I was sitting that fall morning
when you came downstairs, just awake,
and my joy at sight of you (emerging
into golden day—
the dew almost frost)
pulled me to my feet to tell you
how much I loved you:


those wooden steps
are gone now, decayed
replaced with granite,
hard, gray, and handsome.
The old steps live
only in me:
my feet and thighs
remember them, and my hands
still feel their splinters.


Everything else about and around that house
brings memories of others—of marriage,
of my son. And the steps do too: I recall
sitting there with my friend and her little son who died,
or was it the second one who lives and thrives?
And sitting there ‘in my life,’ often, alone or with my husband.
Yet that one instant,
your cheerful, unafraid, youthful, ‘I love you too,’
the quiet broken by no bird, no cricket, gold leaves
spinning in silence down without
any breeze to blow them,
is what twines itself
in my head and body across those slabs of wood
that were warm, ancient, and now
wait somewhere to be burnt.

Washing over me
Like tears from heaven
Absolving me of my sins
A brand new start
Free to live again
To breathe again
To love again

I touch this skin so pale,
Afraid that it will shatter
But if it broke into a thousand shards,
Then I ask, to whom does it matter?

The glass that lay upon the floor
Covered in blood of mine
Only tells of days gone by,
A single life suspended in time

For no on touches broken glass
In fear of hurt and pain
"Be sure not to touch that blood," They say,
"It leaves a nasty stain"

But those few who saw this shower of pain
Quickly come and see
Through the wreckage of many tears
If I could still be me

So they put me back together again,
Like a Humpty-Dumpty that fell
Hoping the pieces still fit together
And I'll turn out just swell


Together once more, but not for long,
Everyone sighs relief
They go back to their days of nothing
As I silently drown in grief

They smile at me as though I was there,
They see but a pile of glass
My rims too sharp to love and embrace
I'm sure this glue won't last


But now I look to your wisdom,
With my eyes a little teary
Hoping you'll see I'm more
Than just run-down and weary


Oh, friend, why can't they see?
This mirror is only a reflection of me?

i'm stuck again
i find myself emotionally involved in every inch of you
your collarbones, jaw line
arms, hands
chest
i heave myself into them all
i want to be as close to you as possible
my kisses brush on all of them
i find no end to my madness for you
i'm losing myself
blurring the boundaries between you and i
what have i done?
everything has become slow
but i can't seem to brush my cheeks over you
as quickly as i'd like to
hiding my face in your chest,
i pray i do not have leave your grasp
the warmth of your presences seeps into my chest
trickles into my stomach
reaches my ankles
i do not want to escape