If I could write the radiance of birds
Or name the births of all the continents,
Would I be closer to your secret mind?
Others have touched the penetralia
Of your obscure recess, so why can’t I?
When will the azure of your voice proclaim
The feasts of patience come? Never?
The death of a wish hardly makes a sound.
Walking around naked on the moon
I stop only to consider the coffee stain
In the glass of the soul
The house is defenestrated with griffin claws
And a leopard is laughing at emptiness
Some people are never
Satisfied they didn’t discover the Pacific
Not even I can wish you away
The moon mirrors the seasons and the years
Which disappear into its silver mouth
And then return like a second, invisible sun
Illuminating half-remembered dreams.
What are you doing here?
It’s wonderful to be in one another’s arms.
Later the corridors lead to other rooms
And I lose you among the ghosts and guests.
The sun has turned the snow into a glazed
Meringue, so that the whole island floats
In a vanilla sauce. Elsewhere, black snow
Is a peppery oxymoron one can taste.
(“Don’t put that in your mouth!”)
Lime trees would smell good on summer nights
If I were seventeen. February,
Someone must love your bluish hair and lips.
I have been waiting for the calm of night
And here it is, an atmosphere, obscure,
Enveloping the mind and its menagerie,
A caged panther pacing back and forth.
My spirit swims against a senseless tide,
And in the planes unfolding without end,
Drifting between the stars and the abyss,
It contemplates the image of its flight.
The languages of flowers will revolt the mind
Seeing into the long dark passages that never add
Up into constructions, like the ghosts of horses
That galloped away before these hills were built.
The obstacles are supposed to have some use,
Like an opportunity. That optimism fizzles like a drink
While unknowable rendezvous arrange
The flowing substances, the dark necessities.
The story continues with or without us,
But the narration changes hand, gradually
Taking hold in the pantheon of images
That secretly explain us to ourselves
Since the forgotten dawn of consciousness.
If only we would bother to perceive them
And think, and not remember what we know,
How could the changing patterns of our lives
Elude even the most deluded minds,
Preoccupied, as we are, with righteousness
Of self, though in the name of higher things?
Looking into the conquered dragon's face
I see my own bright eyes and good intent
And know the hand of darkness is my own,
And know my ego, like a phoenix, will rise
And rise forever from repeated deaths.