I only ask once.
Okay maybe twice.
Or five, six, seven eight
Hundred times.
Quite many times I admit.
and that's why
the moment I stop, I mean it.
Its not because I quit.
Its simply that I no longer want it.
Its quite controversial to me too
after wanting something for such a long time
After that moment, I never ever want it again.
Not in a million years.
THE END.
Why would I chase the moon
When I have the audacity to chase what the moon is chasing?
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
Slowly the night blooms, unfurling
Flowers of darkness, covering
The trellised sky, becoming
A bouquet of blackness
Unending
Touched with sprigs
Of pale and budding stars
Soft the night smell
Among April trees
Soft and richly rare
Yet commonplace
Perfume on a cosmic scale
I turn to you Mandy Lou
I see the flowering night
Cameo condensed
Into the lone black rose
Tinge of frost
kisses the grass,
apples catch the dew
on burning cheek.
Hot mouth shivers,
anticipation - sharp
teeth snag the skin
taste the bitter essence.
Birch tree, you remind me
Of a room filled with breathing,
The sway and whisper of love.
She slips off her shoes;
Unzips her skirt; arms raised,
Unclasps an earring, and the other.
Just so the sallow trunk
Divides, and the branches
Are pale and smooth.
As you gaze, I
avert my eyes
lest breath stop.
Behind you, leaves
paint the sun
while sparrows
sing on.
Spine recurved into a bow almost humble
Voice jumping to be bowstring
My weight just before you raise me to your arm’s taut radius
Shuddering like the bow of a ship ready
At the thought of what you aim me at I nearly swoon
And stay awake to a hissing twisting knifewedge wind
If everything is impermanent why do you want it
I don’t want anything for ever
You will disappoint everyone
Then you will be free
You arrived like an odd insect
That, upon extending its wings,
Belongs to all yet to no one in particular.
The grapevine beetle knows
That its time was summer and locusts,
And that before that sweltering heat and that music
Life is a bale of hay, darkness, and a thin membrane.
It recognizes a purple shell wherein
The female, quietly lurking,
Yearns to be fire and fruit.
That summer of nineteen hundred and something,
I withstood the calumny of my life
Like an emblem of molten silver,
Without shade, but rich in fruit so sweet
That milk and honey were nothing.
Milk, honey, streams
Each time the moon is ripe
I scoop blue water from the lake
store it in preserve jars
its magic pressed to my ear.
On nights like this I
spill some in your whiskey
smile at your eyes, bright
moist lips, and think,
This could be the night.
Later at dawn we watch the moon
curl down the sky, the lake
pull back from the shore.