Saturday, October 28, 2006

Modern Rivers

This Hudson,
this awful fish --
sleek in its tongue,
tender in its mouth,
wet from dear fingers.

First, Woman:

I began above you
in the passage
of waves upon waves;
I hear your eyes turn,
race to the chatter of muscles;

Inside, my face rests
at the night
of your smile;
your legs quit;
your heat slows,
an hallucination
for the hereafter;
I am long past hunger.

In your kiss,
I speak pressed
to the below of your legs, --
your arms a lost space
before separation.
I am a forgotten space
before divorce
In the historical self
I am not last there
(nor above you)
Here with the before woman
and the afterwards--
I love the odor of loss,
a late walk when the air is plenty,
and the miracle has two faces
I am quiet in my mask--
beauty entangled
in the sin of tenderness;
such dishonor
when the water
crowds upon us;
passion of change
is forever a blossom
of a woman dressed
in wonderful.

Then Man:
I was truth.
I wanted miracles
all forms of love
and abundance--
rest here,
take home the delight
of husband and father;
I am them.

I knew how I loved some
of all faces, longer and smaller
the turn of all voices;
above the journey I am older,
forgotten when angry—
I know she loves me.

It is irreverent to ask
again about patience.

Once, she slept in my arms;
We rested through darkness,
beyond windows to enchantment;
no proof for amusement—-
only the wait
of great divers
for the crease
in the cliff
to be swallowed;
then regression,
a pause before exile.

My dear friends;
we are the safety of passion
above all modern rivers;
fate is alone when we meet.

Then the River

In cold Hudson,
no witness
but November.

Above the Mountains
that look like trees
dark appears to itself;
all mist lost;
the river, gray,
its blood brown--
the waters move
through my hand
where I glide
down clean rocks
below the face
my love gave me;

I learn how to fly
this last November;

How easy to swim
above the horizon.

The river is awhile
in the trance of morning;

The River within
is a slight
reorder of motion;

Breached by the flood
a blank age
appears to itself

(Honor and glory
reserved for our turn

Where the tide
is chance
and I am not found--
my body has no witness
fantasy is terror
the rivers never
stop watching
the mountain has feet
and fancy no shudder.

I examine the manner
of my listening;
The Hudson arranged
in pure spirit–
great is the sigh.


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