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
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