When I stepped to the kitchen behind the dog this morning, I couldn't figure out why the cars in the driveway had gone rosy--until I turned to look out the back windows.
It's a four hour drive from where I live to where I lived, and am now, and it's the kind of drive that's good for meditating and mulling over. This afternoon I did a lot of musing on something I wrote several years ago but hadn't thought about for awhile, until my beloved Brooklynite mentioned recently that she'd shown it to her poetry students. When I returned to it, I thought, yes: yes indeed. And so it was the silent track under the sounds of my return from one home to another, and so I will reprise it here.
In one of the tenses of desire that you cannot hear Cross out the distance between us, for I am The room is slowly of and on you.
Wide Night Words
(with apologies to Carol Ann Duffy)
La lala la. See what it is like, or what it is
like in words? Somewhere I am singing
an impossible song. Shall I say it is sad?
I close my eyes and imagine
this is the other side of wide night,
the pleasurable moon turning away from the hills.
thinking I am in love with you and this.
Cross that dark and I would reach to have you.
Or this is.
In one of the tenses of desire that you cannot hear
Cross out the distance between us, for I am
The room is slowly of and on you.