|
Last night Bernal Heights was sweet with incense.
I don't want to come from catastrophe,
but I must pull voice through
the disimagined, through
lovers aflame and their
jumping. We jolt our terror
with what is tender, leave lit
candles all night. I speak plain
that I don't know how to be here,
I tug my cloak though doorways
lined in shards and it catches.
I expect that. Coffined in this comfort--
to say all verse is occasional misses that time
is not mine and I will not spend it rightly.
I telephone across the country and dragonflies soar.
It is not play that propels them across the lawn today.
They fly gleaming and all I do is watch.
Gleams instead of justice, we would choose it this way.
The pacific scenery begs forgiveness: I am sorry to fill you with awe,
I made you slow and drunk, but know you won't return to me. You will not feel
words nor strong, you'll shake your beauty, dislodge what you can of truth.
|
