I want to live inside this
song with you. I want to walk
down its loping paths over
grown with dusk-lit moss (with you).
Paint your instant coffee and
drink your tear-down walls. Find the
ghosts in the corners the leaks
on rainy days watching the
cat watch the rain watch the way
you move so quietly a
toe broken in a slipper
note broken on the lip a
squeak so charged so telling of
the space inside this song. We’ll
sit in a claw-foot tub big
enough for the two of us
Am I really gloomy?
am I really sad?
am I really hurt?
is it really that bad?
Should it hurt?
is it normal to last this long?
after all, death is permanent.
but I didn't expect to constantly hear your song.
So here we go again,
thought for the day.
how am I supposed to deal with this?
when I can't even find my own way...
I ask you not to go,
when you've already left months back.
but I persist on clinging to your memory.
even when a mind is at lack.
busy sitting
all morning
I am summoned
by a song
my eyes too out of tune
to look up
a room with a song
night work
against tomorrow
I sing to myself
rather than go home
with grief
o my war horse
the way turned
into more convenience
all the music of a tree
is to make it go
more than art or play
a festival of use
a faith that we hear
as singing
being
beyond
things fly over the city at night
dark fire a holy rocket
a cut-throat god
and the songs of a starling
come to town
for an evening out
I did not hear it raining
in the night
we who are citizens of the ordinary
sing other songs
even by the sea
uncertain what to think and how
morning is a sober ointment
who understands the world at first sight
I remember a thin hard season
people in the streets
but I did not understand them
singing
in a sort of haze
under my car
all afternoon to see
what sings
noon is a black box
the same box my face
is often in
when weary of sitting
I sing
to a laughing no one
count to one like a heart
out too far among
these people people
as the days keep on
let the world go
there is nothing
but I hear my wife sing