How long would our poem be?How much would it weigh?The first verse would be yours, of course−Age before beauty, you'd say.You would not rush so much as crest,a wave that spreads and breaksacross the eyes and ears to fillsome deeper, inner space.The next verse would be mine,self-conscious, yes, it's true,and full of fits and startsbut bits of music too.Would we share some lines then, just we two?Here's a place for my words;here, only yours will do,And would it matter, really,after all is said and done,who made which piece of glory?Who, this moon? Who, that sun?The pen drops from my hand,but there's still more to say.So I must write our final line,which is simplystay.
LamiumMigraine dreams, jagged seams,A badge of love and pain.Or dreamy eyes, sleepy eyes,Drooping, closing, losing light.Packages scattered under the tree,Some torn open, some tied tight.Is there a heartbeat in those purple veins?Are those embryos or mouths or rosary beads?The color of my first dress, gathered with love,Fairy cups stirred with blades of grass,notes clustered on a windy score,Three blooms, three friends, alas!Grape flowers, cloud flowers, love flowers,Paper parasols upside down, a butterfly herdStopped to rest by a deep green pool.Petals small as a child's tears good-bye,Dropped stitches everywhereFrom a blanket the color of sky.
Safe DepositI thought that I could keep it−the light on the running tide,how your eyes give you awayno matter what you hide.I thought that I could hold it−the forest along the sand,your neck bones like pearlsunderneath my hand.But time's school has taught mehow petals brown and die.There's no saving pleasure.Don't try. Don't try.