Meadow with Standing Crows
After living in the sprouting desert there is nothing
like the thought of sweet rain falling into a salty bay.
Rather than bear the farthest touch,
rather than be rain, having been
neither of this world nor mad as it turns
out, on and off during a year
I saw someone had bitten your neck near the baby
hair, and also your shoulder. Why does it show,
is it of the heart, is it mindless, jealousy,
where nothing moves in a field in a world, and it is morning?
Even though you never came after me
all
Summer, nor called,
not once when I said not to, like finally
stepping over water after contemplation of it
as sand, two crows in the moans of the salt
water in my head answer for whom are we mysterious
and suffering, for loveliness.
No comments:
Post a Comment