I should keep up with this but everything seems so crowded these days and so hard to do anything. But I am writing a lot.
CAPES AND CLOTHING
She puts on the cape of swans.
She puts on the cape of darkness.
She puts on the cape of dim music.
She puts on the whispering cape.
She has the songs already in the chamber
When she fires. They look for corners
In the night where they may hide as darkling beetles
Do. She puts on the chorus of stridulations.
It is so easy to be distracted, to look away,
To lose sight of her movements. She wants
It that way and drives her car as if it were
A moth finally escaped from the flame charms.
The sea horns begin to make their low pitched
Bellows. “There are dangerous rocks here,”
They announce without any words at all.
Everyone cowers in fear, the sound of the waves
Crashing against the cliffside. Let us hurry.
Bring the instruments. Find where the words
Are kept, what shapes may be noticed in deepest
Night, where the moon is resting right now.
She puts on the hood of stars.
She puts on the shoes of the sylph-footed.
She makes the gestures learned from the old days.
She slips away before we ever get near her.
THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING
This belongs to the night.
It has those lights about it.
It has that shape we love
That curls into our own body
As we lie abed, not sleeping
But remembering how sleep
Was and what kinds of gifts
It brought to us.
We are unable to speak,
Think ourselves still asleep,
Covered in the cream of darkness
That pulls on our legs, urges us
To dance if only for a moment.
We stand upon the water.
This must be the part of dreaming.
But we find we are water, we
Move through one another,
Scooped into an iridescence
That we can barely remember,
“Mommy, I was glowing. Am
I still glowing? I think I am.”
There is Saturday everywhere.
The morning leaks through the blinds,
Slides across the room and finds
Our eyes. “Yes, you are still
Glowing.” Right now, it’s the sun
On your skin, the soft, tiny hairs
On the body captures light for
Its moment and fills the morning
With smiles that will stay with us.
They are the daughters of longing.
Ginger and cotton,
Pistachio nuts, poppy seed,
Nutmegs and raisins,
Muslin, red and gold bolts.
A vocabulary of things.
Our conversation could not
Find words and did not use
Them when they could be found.
A drape of fabric was more
Articulate than talking of its
Form could ever be. Rain
Was always welcome. It made
Great gestures that caused listening
From both of us. We undid
Mornings and stumbled to our beds
Describing with a sweeping hand or
By pointing at the moon behind
A screen of leaves showing only bits
And splatter of the night in
The trees. It was more than enough.
They were our cargoes. We took them
To bed with us, our heads swimming
With dreams even before we laid them down.