Two Poems (December 20, 2010. Issue 23.)
J
Today, we rode our bicycles
through countless New England
kingdoms: farmhouses I’d give anything
to live in, barns I wouldn’t mind
being kept in, graveyards
I’d be happy being dead in.
Maybe we could be that happy.
By the last of the October light,
I think I could read you mind
over and over: It is the most
illuminated manuscript — and you
plan, while your fingers fumble
the buttons of my flannel, where
to plant the sunflowers, your
heirlooms, an orchard.
But his and hers are heirs
to this kingdom. We
might give each other everything
but we do not have the keys.
H
Above, beech leaves shine
like coins in the palm
of the sky. Through the stuttering
sunlight, a blue jay javelins
and you reshuffle your legs
in that dress. And the years
you never offer me your body
fly: The crane of thought
with machine ease, swings us
up and far above those wings,
the language they call love.
The late light goes honey,
bees z’ing figure-eights between
the orbs of alium. A breeze
keeps turning a page you keep
turning back. To that day,
the closest we could ever come. |