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“Spring is here and my old joy blooms in the world.”
― For Love of Common Words: Poems
― For Love of Common Words: Poems
“And what good is a dream finally? It breaks your heart
and you stand in the lush dark of the moment after twilight
ends and begin to sing and nothing makes sense to you
and you sing louder for a while, then awkwardly sit down
where you are. And the stars overhead shine a little—no more
or less than usual—and whether it is daylight and they are invisible
or whether it is night and they are the embers of a blacksmith’s
fire, they shine and you are grateful. That love is like a hammer.”
―
and you stand in the lush dark of the moment after twilight
ends and begin to sing and nothing makes sense to you
and you sing louder for a while, then awkwardly sit down
where you are. And the stars overhead shine a little—no more
or less than usual—and whether it is daylight and they are invisible
or whether it is night and they are the embers of a blacksmith’s
fire, they shine and you are grateful. That love is like a hammer.”
―
“To a Lady Reading"
The whipsaw beloved noise of someone whispering
right in your ear. That and the sudden small
hillside of your left breast in your open hand.
A caress so tender it makes the earth break
under your feet. These sting the underneath
of my tongue and though they are only words
I love how they suggest a reality just outside
the separate ordinary saying of them. How shy
they appear exposed slowly on the page.
How you might watch them. How you
might actually pull your breasts out and over
the silk cups and let them hang there now
as you read, one hand holding my book.
That image took me a half hour to write.
This sentence especially moves tentatively
as a fingertip. And this one is even slower
lower softer and takes all day to go
this little way. If you want me to, I’ll look.
Or else turn away quietly and tell you
how the night’s fat pulley creaks
while the moon is hoisted up with rope.
How dreams turn. How want burns.
How tonight I just came up here and started
to write not knowing where it would lead.
Not knowing for sure if you ever reach late
in the day and touch yourself and rock
back a little in your chair and look out
the window while the Tree of Desire buds
blurry like a fire. Or ever think of me
pulling your dress up over your head slowly
from far away. From simple longing and sway.”
― Sparks from a Nine-Pound Hammer: Poems
The whipsaw beloved noise of someone whispering
right in your ear. That and the sudden small
hillside of your left breast in your open hand.
A caress so tender it makes the earth break
under your feet. These sting the underneath
of my tongue and though they are only words
I love how they suggest a reality just outside
the separate ordinary saying of them. How shy
they appear exposed slowly on the page.
How you might watch them. How you
might actually pull your breasts out and over
the silk cups and let them hang there now
as you read, one hand holding my book.
That image took me a half hour to write.
This sentence especially moves tentatively
as a fingertip. And this one is even slower
lower softer and takes all day to go
this little way. If you want me to, I’ll look.
Or else turn away quietly and tell you
how the night’s fat pulley creaks
while the moon is hoisted up with rope.
How dreams turn. How want burns.
How tonight I just came up here and started
to write not knowing where it would lead.
Not knowing for sure if you ever reach late
in the day and touch yourself and rock
back a little in your chair and look out
the window while the Tree of Desire buds
blurry like a fire. Or ever think of me
pulling your dress up over your head slowly
from far away. From simple longing and sway.”
― Sparks from a Nine-Pound Hammer: Poems
