She’s fucking another man. I’m writing another fucking poem.
Where To Find Love
(with thanks to Gary Snyder)
the book stores and the record shops and
the Wildflower Kitchen,
and anywhere outdoors in sweet, spring,
and in churches and prisons and houses for
watch the children at play.
listen to the old men talking.
give something away.
wink at every passing stranger,
and dance with the fallen angel.
study faces: the shape of the mouth and the eyes,
the signature of days in every wrinkle.
and study the trees and the mountains,
and the open wound of cities, and all their glory.
rejoice in the body: laughter, tears.
rejoice in wholeness, and incompletion.
and in all you have ever known, and forgotten,
and in your parents, and in the race of man,
and in this home, the earth,
and in this illusion, this life.
the absence of things, the space between, defines it. not what can be said but what cannot. the poet lies, the priest pretends to know. flesh knows, but flesh is silent. we see by what we cannot know, the inline and the out: the intervals between the notes, the space between the stars. we know by what we cannot see, clotheslines in the breeze: the dance of petticoats, dark clouds, a rainstorm threatening.
I kneel in other temples. It is the pilgrim’s way. Yet returning to this place, I find my chair, I say my prayer. It is for me you polish the glass so fine it sets the air on fire? For me you keep the candle lit? Or for an ancient sacrifice to some god whose face you took for mine?
it becomes something to carry: a handkerchief, folded in the pocket, like the flag of some ruined nation, an empire of sorrows, where cities fell like tears.
I’d love to dress your body with words. golden sentences you could wear at midnight like a rare shawl on your way to me. and word by word undress you then. and word by word undress you. she rides the white unicorn, her nipples hard, her dream moist between her legs. the mornings in bed. the morning slow and easy as the rising of angels. watching each other’s faces, each other’s gestures. turning them over and over like the pages of a picture book. no words to reveal truth or conceal it. you spoke of being simple. but i couldn’t hear for all the angels singing ancient wisdoms round your head.