Spring 1984 • Vol. VI No. 2 A Gathering of Poems |

Untitled

You are the dark song of the morning; serious and slow, you shave, you dress, you descend the stairs in your public clothes and drive away, you become the wise and powerful one who makes all the days possible in the world. But you were also the red song in the night, stumbling through the house to the child's bed, to the damp rose of her body, leaving your bitter taste. And forever those nights snarl the delicate machinery of the days. When the child's mother smiles, you see on her cheekbones a truth you will never confess; and you see how the child grows—timidly, crouching in corners. Sometimes in the wide night you hear the most mournful cry, a ravished and terrible moment. In your dreams she's a tree that will never come to leaf— in your dreams she's a watch you dropped on the dark stones till no one could gather the fragments—in your dreams you have sullied and murdered, and dreams do not lie.

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