I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
They are so beautiful, and so very young
they seem almost to glitter with perfection,
these creatures that I briefly move among.
I never get to stay with them for long,
but even so, I view them with affection:
they are so beautiful, and so very young.
Poised or clumsy, placid or high-strung,
they're expert in the art ofintrospection,
these creatures that I briefly move among —
Go home. It's never what you think it is,
The kiss, the diamond, the slamdance pulse in the wrist.
Nothing is true, my dear, not even this
Rumor of passion you'll doubtless insist
On perceiving in my glance. Please just
Go. Home is never what you think it is.
Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist
Is always almost just about to lift.
Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this
Candle can explain its searing twist
Of flame mounted on cool amethyst.
Go on home — not where you think it is,
I forgot to tell you it's almost time to go.
The sun has distilled its particular worn essence
And the glittering trout is flipped on the bow.
A man asks me what time it is. I don't know.
I have emptied my purse and wept in the presence
Of onlookers. I forgot to remember to go
Before eleven, when the steely arrow
Shot swimming to its underneath, tense
As a stream of salmon in reverse below
A narrow girl sells purses made of reed.
Dead rabbits hang by feet, their red eyes dull,
while chickens crammed in cages peck their seed.
A vessel in Juan’ s brain begins to bleed,
spreading into the fissures of his skull.
A narrow girl sells purses made of reed.
The madams in the district underfeed
hookers they line up for a spectacle
while chickens crammed in cages peck their seed.
A vendor buys his wares, then smokes some weed;
he seldom deems police an obstacle.
A narrow girl sells purses made of reed.
What kind of delusion are you under?
The life he hid just knocked you flat.
You see the lightning but not the thunder.
What God hath joined let no man put asunder.
Did God know you’ d marry a rat?
What kind of delusion are you under?
His online persona simply stunned her
as it did you when you started to chat.
You see the lightning but not the thunder.
To the victors go the plunder:
you should crown them with a baseball bat.
What kind of delusion are you under?
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered,
sibilant similes and promises sotto voce.
It’s easy to imagine you've misheard,
the form and content clash, create this weird
distortion like an echo or a tape delay.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
On which do you place emphasis: The words?
Or the breath? The farfetched or the foreplay?
It’s easy to imagine you've misheard
when objectivity has disappeared
and your lover is getting further carried away.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered
You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead,
but I have lived two decades longer now than you
and all this time I have carried you in my head
so I think I have the right to question what you said,
dear teacher. My religious upbringing’s residue,
you would have thought it foolish. To speak to the dead,
however, is sometimes necessary, especially haunted
by all the things I know you hoped I’d do
with all this time that I have carried you in my head.
In a dream last night I followed where you led
