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An 80-Years Self, Portrait |
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| The moon tonight, no more than a cuticle, dips both
house and shrub in a kind acid. If I were a saint, I would be dead. I would have already trimmed the rind of longing. If I were a bird, I would move where steeple and tree are silhouettes on the scrim of distance, and I'd watch the flat hold hands with the flat. If I were a dog, I would lie here moaning by the brown edge of sleep, my tooth sharp in this cut-out, paste-up world where, if a child once again, I'd have myself bathed clean at last. |
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But as I am I I am content to be what I am not content to stay: the husks untidier each spring, the blots wider, the ailanthus more rank, the craw of the wind more gritty. |
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| As I am I am content to forget the nard of impotence, to sip the black air like coffee, and know that it is not enough to stop breathing, not even when the cheek shakes and the lip sweats like milk bottles, and the surface of everything quivers with the sensitivity of a lute, and I know how deeply soothing is that bath of light though I prefer to steep in dark for a while longer. |
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