PARADISE

Your voice
whispering my name
in this dark dark room
as you reach
across the years
for me
and touch my body
finally.

A night,
a week,
a life of this

and the coffee,
the kids
and the world
can wait
for the sun.



THINGS I WILL DO

There are things I will do only for you
when we are two in a dim room:

I will dance with you to music in my head,
whispering foolish secrets.

I will pretend you are a violin,
stroking sweet and violent notes from you.

I will sing in your ear,
in a sweet and raspy voice like burning candles.

I will lie in bed with you,
wrapping you up

In my arms, in my sheets,
in myself.

And I will write words like this,
every so often

Just so you know
who I am.


LS

what crisis? who? sure
enough of us dream of

vast fields of tomato plants on
the roofs of all manner of

houses high above the cities
& their wet dreams of

eternal growth, eternal
carrots, parrots mimicking

parents telling their children
not to dream of more than

they, the parents, can
imagine chewing between

work & sleep & work. crisis?
when crisis? i tell you i'm

not in the least shocked. not
in the very least. who crisis?

A messenger has arrived and begs your attention.
He has climbed three mountains and crossed a burning plain to be here.
He has survived the opening of the skies and the shaking of the earth.

Your firing squad is assembled in the courtyard.
Shall we kill him now?
Or do you want to hear the message?

Can beauty go down this road
or must it always be back there
with the April flowers,
the once-bloomed, never to repeat itself,
the gorgeous flowering of faces
that know what to do with soil and rain.

Are these signpost years
doors that block out everything
but the tearful glance back,
the glimpse of natural color,
of tall and slender stems.

Can’t blossoms follow,
make the grand statement
years beyond their roots.
Your eyes open
on a sunny Sunday morning.
Autumn’s reversed itself.
Glad you agree.