I think as I dream the angels tell me
that all things are temporary.
Beloved, Do you know these things also?
Have you swam to shore where the willow trees
wait to cool your face,
and the soft grass offers a place to rest
from the expectations that crowd each night?
I was lost the night I met you,
and walked with disharmony among the tall reeds
stilled by moonlight.
I was lost the night I met you,
and sang to myself a song from childhood.
I was lost, and you, on the opposite side of the river bank,
heard the path breaking beneath my feet,
and answered the chorus which I sang.
THE BODY IN LOVE
The consequences of the body
In love- not unlike
The marble horses in Florence
Straining toward freedom,
But chained to one moment
In silent exhaustion.
And as Michaelangelo's David
Prompting tourists to swoon and faint
At the Duomo Cathedral.
The consequences
Akin to stone angels
Winged but weeping,
Forever waking to strangers
In a city they do not know the name of.
What is indelible
As pollen on cotton,
More brief than the hours of a day lily,
But the body in love
Erasing the before and after,
Merging with the miraculous
And the concept of Forever.
It's said that bees are holy
And whisper the 100th Psalm
At
Their honey, a salve
For the wounded of World War II.
But this is not enough
For the body in love,
Pulled from the elements
Like a mermaid
From the womb of the sea,
Capable now only of sepia-toned memory.
Perhaps the body in love
Turns toward the stars,
And the constellations appear reversed,
Viewed now from a heavenward stance,
As though reflected in a mirror
Like those on the ceiling
Of Grand Central Station.
Turns toward the stars
For consolation, as only something
Constant and primordial can comfort.
Turns toward the stars to recall
What is eternal.
And the body in love
Like a feather dropped into a canyon,
Easily carried away
Toward some unseen destination.
Swaying this way and that,
A dancer in a bordello
Trying to gain favor, to shine
In the midst of second hand rooms
Divided by deadlines and profit.
The body in love whistling
As a tornado whistles
Prior to the path before it
Is overcome.
As a train whistles and hollers
In a warning to clear the tracks
Of any and all debris.
The body in love
Imagining always
That it has become a supernatural being
For whom mortal rituals
Are never enough.
MAY AT THE METROPOLITAN
We move through the ancient Temple of Dundar,
And pass all seven venerable statues of Sekhmet
Beside the black stagnant water.
Later, I come to a place of ancient virgins
Caught in plaster, some without hands.
It seems always as though the hands,
Held out or up to welcome the Holy Spirit,
Are the first to break against time.
And yet next to what the eyes have seen
It is the hands
Which have held love and suffering,
That have lent warmth
Or offered sustenance.
But these virgins sitting with no mission
In a busy room beckon prayer.
I am hesitant to pass them by
Without listening to their stories,
Without holding my palms outward
As one earthbound
Struggling to receive grace.
DANAID
Cottonwood pollen shifts like snow around us,
Caught in my hair, clinging to my lips,
Moving through my bare toes.
White stars in the air
As though Cocteau had directed it.
We stand like hands
Pressed together in prayer.
Later, I dream there are
The culmination of past sorrow
Bringing sweetness to the present.
The night roses and lavender,
Far from scenes of the apocalypse.
Lamb, everything is about light.
In your hands I am like Danaid,
Uncarved, half submerged in marble
As if trying to emerge from a cocoon.
Now your fingers find the hands, the thighs
That so long have been obscured.
It is about light and becoming whole,
This soft rescue, this work in progress.
Your body speaks in absence
After you have gone.
Desire leaves a patina on everything
In the eyes of the beloved.