Truth be told, I’m as content to face a gale as I am to sip rare verse — even when, a moment later, I forget the blessèd words.
The Good Life
Let’s say you’re bathing in an eighteenth century English epistolary novel,
in which words are soap bubbles, and paragraphs are beads draped by the door,
when you hear the footsteps of someone you love cross the floor;
The beads are gently brushed aside; and there’s no need at all to blush or hide
behind esquires, booksellers, and rosy, roast-filled reverends;
Not one word is said; until, dripping, you stand, and she takes your hand,
and you hurry to mark the place, when, in her face, you trace the crowning line:
Oh! really, I do not mind! for it is sublime, to begin again!
Categories: New Poems & Pieces