You wore gold eyeshadow
in fall, and green in spring
and in winter you wore
no eyeshadow at all.
In summer, you wore the sun
and all year, my love, my love.
Poetry
You wore gold eyeshadow
in fall, and green in spring
and in winter you wore
no eyeshadow at all.
In summer, you wore the sun
and all year, my love, my love.
One crisp spring morning
you went out into the garden
in your underwear and my boots
to dance among the early shoots
of tulips and hyacinth: a nature nymph
in love with the air and the earth.
You walk towards the surf
and the lecherous sun
reaches all his gold fingers
into your hair, under your skirt,
across the bridge of your foot.
Today I am jealous of light.
You probably think I made a pact with the stars too.
But I don’t know why they fall.
Maybe they are visiting their lovers.
Maybe they tired of their lovers.
Maybe the stars get wanderlust like you do.
Maybe they are trying to light someone’s way home.
I made a pact with the birds when I was a little boy.
I fed them crumbs of my grandma’s cornbread
and memorized their colors and their names.
I promised to pick up their fallen nests and put them back,
if they’d just pop in and pipe at me from time to time,
when I am sad, when I am in love.
You are the sea:
a hush of waves on the surface
but you go deep and deep
and deeper than the light,
a belly full of strange things
beautiful without the sun.
Tonight the moon is a scythe.
She reaps
the stalks of stars
from a field so spacious,
its harvest refuses
to be weighed.
I wake craving coffee
and you, warm cupful of you,
wakeful pot full of you,
daybreak you, stirring you,
integral step
of my morning ritual you.
Your mouth
holds the night,
a dark full berry
in little white teeth:
bite down slow,
burst stars, juice black.
listen, love
listen
the rain hush-hushes
the wind shush-shushes
my heart rush-rushes
all lulls us into sleep