I posted an old family photograph earlier this morning, and I think I will post another tomorrow. All in the balance of things. But in between, there is always desire — what it is, and what it does and doesn’t mean.
Inside the flower, down the stem,
into the roots — a dark hum:
that’s where we learn about desire,
that’s where the sun can’t hear
what we’re whispering.
But I have other ways of finding out —
And the wind blows, and it leaves us
with nothing but hard, dry clods,
pale lips, coffin wood . . .
and no flowers to lay upon them.
I wrote about it in a letter once;
it came back unopened,
like a pack of unclaimed seed.
I tore off the end;
the sun was laughing . . .
I cursed until it rained.
Songs and Letters, September 2, 2008
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Categories: Songs and Letters