Monday, March 21

Oh, that old moon, that yellow, yellow moon

For a word from you,
I will wait a few centuries. Not loiter,
but stand in queues of men at petrol bunks
at visa consulates, and those who chatter ceaselessly,
they use grand words, love and man, freedom and some ism,
they are all ismists, or ists. Something, some label. Human?

The trees will gather snow, and inside, my heart
will be the everything making fire; you said
you picked me from star dust
and I, the dust, hallowed to skies-
to your lips; does it matter that silence reigns
on the cold night I shiver, that even those frozen drips
dare not answer a simple question: how sweet the bells ring?

I grew up learning of the Grand Rapids; of Zeppelin
of water, water everywhere: and I grew up
learning miracles. I believed myself a miracle,
for a being and a human, what less am I?
No, I do not judge; but I believe-
I think everyone must know they are miracle-
and the obstinate innocence cries out to be slapped.

Truth, I knew in concept, but you taught me
the word and the feeling. I felt pure
for the first time, I felt noble; I understood
to see the colours of the world. That yellow moon
I always saw, I always wanted to kiss
was now a world where inhabited a maiden
with unruly hair, unironed clothes
who peeped out, to know what could the sea be doing now.

The universe:
sunlight fills the door, wooden tables rough-hewn stand,
cats mewl in the corner, and a song is sung by a girl of ten,
while yet the wind is strong outside, and the oak trees
flail their branches with little tosses; oh,
and you have got another picture! Oh, the cards
will never finish, exchanging our pictures?
Life shines in all its avatars: sing me a song, tell me a story,
say you love me.



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