You may be patient but the dream
has little need of time tonight,
collapsing any measure deemed
sufficient for the tempter's height,
slow leaving questions in its wake,
crisp flavors of the early frost
on carvings that the children make
in stone & fruit or newel post,
abrupt cessation of the slide
down slanted stairs at harvest time,
when color has no place to hide
and reason sees no need to rhyme.
We'll soon enough lay down the dream,
releasing it to what it means.

I just want to be here by you,
On brisk October evenings,
A glass half full of dry red wine,
Good records playing Miles Ahead
And some extended rhapsody
Laid down by bodhisattvas who,
In studios or concert halls,
Or even football stadiums,
Found paradise and brought some back,
So we could share this lovers' gaze
And spell these words that someone else
Not here tonight might read as if
The world has loved us all somehow,
In stories & in tones of blue.

If words could transport, you'd be here,
Come south again romantically,
With Amorous Particulars,
To whisper most emphatically,
Your quil gon penetrate the veil.
Good English words cannot define
The love you sing, the way you wail
This canted language of the vine.
I'll wet your lips with syllables
Your other wouldn't understand.
Come taste new pleasures, break some rules,
And move until you come undone.
These bits well moisten underthings,
Come be my love, unsheath your wings.

The almost perfect story chose
A lamb for innocence of blood,
A dogwood post for martyr's pose,
Survivors from an ancient flood.
God's daughter would have questioned him,
Regarding some original
Temptation hanging from a limb,
That led to such a horrid fall.
What makes you think you're always right?
Who gave you birth? You honor her?
Have you no doubt on Friday night
A miracle will soon occur?
Your son's obedience is fine,
But he got his & I got mine.

If all desire is paradox,
Explain to me this history
Hard taught with combination locks,
Their tumblers still a mystery
That won't be picked till victory
Of rolling stone & empty box,
A complicated armory
Of spinning tops and winding clocks.
Your scaffolding is quite sincere,
And yet I choose some other way
To steal a message not quite clear
From thoughts I find no way to say.
As three a.m. comes round again,
I don't know why, or where I've been.

I

It's true I volunteered tonight
To be the village Idiot,
The competition--not that swift--
Left me the darkness as a gift,
While I accepted as a fool
Who couldn't quite be tamed by school,
Or taught what others seem to get--
A prayer book full of lineament.
Lines coming off the crescent moon
Slant in this open-windowed room
The light that finds its way to me
Has burned already, coming lean.
A soldier kneels and scoops the stream.
I've brought along this old canteen.

                               II

Start again woman, again go up
With your sacrifice
And say the longer truth
Of what it means
To be conceived with sin
Or close in its shadow.
Whose right to summon the old demons
Of hysteria and bleached rags?
I'll meet you when we've lost our way,
And can't make sense of words we've brought
Down from the mountainous moon.


                                III

You could not have known how
My mistakes and yours were good
Enough as decisions go,
Or why we could endure
The minstrel path that's come
Upon us, unclear if it's
A back road  or a boulevard
Until a destination
Approaches.


                           IV

The  notebook of the imbecile,
With its pages missing,
Is scripturally infused.

Come into the moonlight prepared
To be dressed down
By its innocence.


                              V

May I  ask if it's different--
Really, oddly not the same--
When you find yourself
So far north that your accent
Is a definition?


                              VI


How much light does it take
To distinguish the way
You've put yourself together?
I recognize you miles away,
In total darkness
Do you understand?
I didn't even know.


                             VII

This frightened fool well
Versed but lacking comprehension
Could live beneath your scorn
Until you grant reprieve.
Forgive my patient lingering,
If secretly you're glad I'm here,
In contrast to your misplaced bed.


                             VIII

Perplexed by the fright
Of your return,
What if what you needed
Wasn't love
Or it wasn't enough
And you were more aware of it than I?


                             IX

The spot we made for landing
Wasn't clear.  You somehow
Understood this while I
Jumbled the exit,
Calling you a mythical creation.


                               X

I love to come from this smiling
In your beautiful teeth,
Between your lips a flower
Not even knowing you were here
And then so long confused
At who you are--pent.
It frightens me in ways I shall
Never describe
Outside my dreams to see you again.