Tuesday, May 22, 2007
How can a man use "moon," "stars," and "the heart" and get away with it?
It was one of those little folds in time
when the absurd moon could rise without a purpose.
We all knew where melancholy could lurk
in ravines, or even lie sprawled out by the side of the road.
We all knew we could have wilted with the day lilies.
And those nail heads of stars—who would be left
to hang their sorrows on them?
That's why Boris was back in our kitchen practicing ecstasy.
This in a poem about war -- always the stars, the moon, the heart to remind us: we keep loving, we keep daring to love. What other choice do we have?
I woke early this morning, took Jackson's latest book, Heartwall, into the garden, breathed the honeysuckle, read, and wrote a bit. That's why Boris was back in our kitchen practicing ecstasy.