Clay
The
fall cannot be far, yet here I sit
amid
the palms and birds of paradise
where
parakeets of lime and yellow flit
through
melon skies; where sapphires waves entice
young
lovers from their homes, so far away;
and
even storms with names cannot deter
their
quest for sun so white it hurts the eyes;
their
ache for sand. But I am made for clay
that
chills the heart along with oak and fir,
and
gives it rest with every leaf that dies.
I Don’t Love You
I
don’t love you, but I love a thought
that
wears your face and body for a while
and
lets me settle all my living, not
on
you, but on something with your smile.
The
dream of love, its ache and its embrace
are
brief enough, but once again may live.
Perhaps
a change of name or just of face
is
all that love requires life to give.
Still,
blackest nights of longing may succumb
to
love made real, if only for a day,
and
the heart, awake, no longer numb,
will
let itself by flesh be rushed away,
and,
in truth, I could love only you,
if
you could see the thought that was just me.
But
no. I see you dreaming, looking through
my
eyes to what you think I’ll never be.
Blocks
You build with blocks, and thoroughfares
have elegant parquet, the portals
rise up to rest smooth walls and stairs.
Of gods’ revenge on lovely mortals
in lands of white built on an isle
of dreams, starward from sea below,
you can’t have heard in your short time;
and yet, your little people climb
up to the top in single file
and cry out: No! No! No!