1247 Love poems

From behind, standing, from a distance, in passing, the taxi meter running, I'd watch her, I'd watch her hair, and what would I see? My stubborn theatre, curtain won't fall, my always-open theatre . . . Best to leave as soon as the show begins.

i thees wite skirtes / & orang sweters     / i wont / inn the feedynge marte / wile mye vegetable partes bloome / inn the commen waye /   a grackel inn the guarden rooste /    the tall wymon wasching handes / or eyeing turnups / the sadened powres wee rub /             so economicalie / inn 1 virsion off thynges / alarum is mye nayme / unkempt & handeld i am hors / i am sadeld /      i am a brokn hors ii the bit provydes its hors / the rocke provyded a boye blessynge gode / i wantd 1 secrete but fore the rod inn this / mye longish throte / i kno no new waye / 2 speech this / the powre off lyons iii tonite i wuld luv to rite the mothe inn the guarden / 2  greev   it   /   &   as   a   mater   off  forme  /   did   u   kno  not a monthe goes bye  /  a tran i kno doesnt dye  /  just  shye   off   27   /   its   such   a   plesure   to   b   alive   /  inn  this  trembled  soot  /  u  lent  /  shock  is  a  struktured  responce  /  a  whord  lost  inn  the  mouthe  off keepers  /  &  u thum at the mothe  /  a dozen bes  / i  tetherred  thees  nites  /  i  gathred  so  manie  treees

ix There I was, all spread out for the taking, bloomed wings waiting for winter sleet. It was a long season of drinking whole creeks and nothing else. We churned desert into desert. What I’m saying is, neither the desert rat nor damselfly can bear the nosebleeds: shoal- laced face bearing down just in time to overwinter. There I was, all spread out for the taking. In truth, nobody wants water this thin. One swallow, and we’re off to dig for more within a hollow womb. This morning we sip water, discussing the trauma in our blood: saltwater — there it rests, in droplets, on my breast skin, “Oh,” I say. “My tears,” rubbing them deep within. xi At church I sat salvaged: I said to send me away wearing nothing but satin and lace. We both felt secondhand. It was knee- length, and it wore me cheap. I couldn’t embrace the old woman who once wore it, couldn’t see my wrists even. And my neck, it was braced up all in lace. The woman next to me says, “How beautiful.” I say, “This beautiful,” then split a hair down the middle. I lied, “I made it myself,” then stood up to fade through painstaking humiliation. As a child, a girl, I saw through myself to age 45. It was then when I first noticed the aching of my hands, how they were soon to set themselves away — they came and went, as if they were lace for the breaking. xiii I was reciting Alfred, Lord Tennyson on my back, in a canoe, floating the holiest way I knew — so close to ghost, and went pale for a moment before finding myself wandering among high pines. I didn’t expect to emerge in white already with my heart in his hand, just as normal as a shell rests on my chest. Didn’t expect to hand it over so early on, at the boundary of our properties in a dream: in the grasses where he ended and I began.I’m feeling very still now that we’ve crossed over into the pale, where we are soon to thread, soon to embellish, then loop back into each other: braided the way we were taught to approach each other — the same way.

Sweet shades why doe you seeke to give delight To mee who deeme delight in this vilde place Butt torment, sorrow, and mine owne disgrace To taste of joy, or your vaine pleasing sight; Show them your pleasures who saw never night Of greife, wher joyings fauning, smiling face Appeers as day, wher griefe found never space Yett for a sigh, a grone, or envies spite; Butt O on mee a world of woes doe ly, Or els on mee all harmes strive to rely, And to attend like servants bound to mee, Heat in desire, while frosts of care I prove, Wanting my love, yett surfett doe with love Burne, and yett freeze, better in hell to bee.

Come darkest night, becoming sorrow best; Light; leave thy light; fitt for a lightsome soule; Darknes doth truly sure with mee oprest Whom absence power doth from mirthe controle: The very trees with hanging heads condole Sweet sommers parting, and of leaves distrest In dying coulers make a griefe-full role; Soe much (alas) to sorrow are they prest, Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpett’s made: Theyr fall, theyr branches, all theyr mournings prove; With leavles, naked bodies, whose huese vade From hopefull greene, to wither in theyr love, If trees, and leaves for absence, mourners bee Noe mervaile that I grieve, who like want see.

Love like a jugler, comes to play his prise, And all minds draw his wonders to admire, To see how cuningly hee, wanting eyes, Can yett deseave the best sight of desire: The wanton child, how hee can faine his fire So pretely, as none sees his disguise! How finely doe his tricks, while wee fooles hire The badge, and office of his tirannies, For in the end, such jugling hee doth make As hee our harts, in stead of eyes doth take For men can only by theyr slieghts abuse The sight with nimble, and delightful skill; Butt if hee play, his gaine is our lost will: Yett childlike, wee can nott his sports refuse.

When I beeheld the Image of my deere With greedy lookes mine eyes would that way bend, Fear, and desire did inwardly contend; Feare to bee mark’d, desire to drawe still neere, And in my soule a speritt wowld apeer, Which boldnes waranted, and did pretend To bee my genius, yett I durst nott lend My eyes in trust wher others seemed soe cleere, Then did I search from whence this danger ’rose, If such unworthynes in mee did rest As my sterv’d eyes must nott with sight bee blest; When jealousie her poyson did disclose; Yett in my hart unseense of jealous eye The truer Image shall in triumph lye.

Love leave to urge, thou know’st thou hast the hand; ’T’is cowardise, to strive wher none resist: Pray thee leave off, I yeeld unto thy band; Doe nott thus, still, in thine owne powre persist, Beehold I yeeld: lett forces bee dismist; I ame thy subject, conquer’d, bound to stand, Never thy foe, butt did thy claime assist Seeking thy due of those who did withstand; Butt now, itt seemes, thou would’st I should thee love; I doe confess, t’was thy will made mee chuse; And thy faire showes made mee a lover prove When I my freedome did, for paine refuse. Yett this Sir God, your boyship I dispise; Your charmes I obay, butt love nott want of eyes.

this is exactly the kind of space I want to follow you into holding your little mute worm on a twig make it marble make it touch like tough winter in the next life we will have longer love better places with extended embraces now we leave the song to return to the front leaf closing on closeness of mothers in the next world overseeing premium waste of the planet reincarnate anywhere but here land on a different rim

We spend the afternoon together watching a docudrama about wild horses that roamed the ancient Arctic Circle. Surprisingly sleek, built for speed and not the weather, they were remarkable for their recklessness. They careen headlong down ice bluffs to fall into a broken heap. We can hear the small, tinny sounds of their terror as they plunge across vast, glowing glacial faces. All of this takes place alongside an abstractly relentless gunmetal sea. I can feel you turn to me, wetness marking the corners of your lips and eyes. I, too, am mesmerized, my vision limited to a sense of motion on the peripheries. Later, I am summoned for an impromptu scan and, miraculously, I pass.