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Dave Bonta
The poem behind the poem says
what do we do with the other
creatures of this world?
Those that stay put, stay put;
those that move, raise their mobile
devices to the window
and press record. What do we do
with the other languages of this world,
the other ways to forget or fall silent?
Dogs can’t be the only ones
whose vocalizations have adapted
to the inattentiveness of the human ear.
And there’s a bird in New Guinea
that can imitate with equal accuracy
a camera shutter or a chainsaw.
What do we do with ourselves
Your constancy inspires me to refurbish
pavilions of hope. Your sweetness
unfurls yards of woven sky
that luxurious tailors applaud. Ah,
my dear, what a long way we’ve traveled
together. Harbors have
looked out for our best interests,
San Francisco, Stockholm, Mobile,
Tacoma, Barcelona. Love
is a province we inherited
from an oligarchy of cherubs.
I wish I were as wise
as you deserve, as patient as
the moon, as extraordinary
as you. I desire all blessings
to come your way like voices
Half-hidden in a graveyard,
In the blackness of a yew,
Where never living creature stirs,
Nor sunbeam pierces through,
Is a tombstone green and crooked,
Its faded legend gone,
And but one rain-worn cherub's head
To sing of the unknown.
There, when the dusk is falling,
Silence broods so deep
It seems that every wind that breathes
Blows from the fields of sleep?
Day breaks in heedless beauty,
Kindling each drop of dew,
But unforsaking shadow dwells
Beneath this lonely yew.