I’m talking about a night we spend
in the same body on the same smooth stones
on the bottom of the dry river
when a storm comes.
My mind is weighted toward sorrow
and I feel unbalanced when I walk.
There are old rooms there, certainly,
that I’ve now abandoned, with their coffee spills
and unmade beds…
lips two wild pulsing fish
swift bubbles of nothing
moaned into the air’s
God help me, I don’t know where I’m going.
We hold each other’s hand like children
finding our way home among the closing wolves.
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day
Wild nights – Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
We stay put, apart,
constant in longing. And that is all
fine, my friends, except the dying
part. Death all around love’s
little sprouting head.
At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.
Now, I long for one of those shirts,
his scent of sweat and paint,
to cover the dent on his side of the bed
I am thirty-two, and in love, again, this time
with a man whose name rolls off my tongue
like water. I’m afraid of hope.
for you are broken too, eh?
and mad like me for love
These actual things
allow me to relive the velocity
with which I’ve learned I love him…