I woke this morning remembering the room we had in Paris which looked out on the Seine.
Speaking of marvels, I am alive
together with you, when I might have been
alive with anyone under the sun
So when you woke, there I was in my Sunday best as a funny little guy with a complex tongue and stunted legs who spoke the double truth.
I know the spring is there.
I walk over it and feel its pull.
I walk gently on the skin of the sea.
A wandering wind wraps around our bodies
And an albatross opens its wings on our shoulders.
You slept and your arms stretched and almost caressed
I forgive you for being beautiful and generous and wise.
I forgive you, to put it simply, for being alive, and pardon you, in short, for being you.
Is something burning? Is something here
on fire? It smells like something here is
burning or on fire. It might be in my head.
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand…
I have no Life but this —
To lead it here —
Giuseppe, a simple shoe-maker,
who never learned English, stood
banging his head against the wall,
cursing God in his native tongue