Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins
I met my love under an orange tree
To say I'm without fear--
It wouldn't be true.
I'm afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
In the end, I made myself
Known to your wife as
A god would, in her own house, in
Ithaca, a voice
There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
No one's despair is like my despair--
You have no place in this garden
thinking such things, producing
Speak to me, aching heart: what
Ridiculous errand are you inventing for yourself
Weeping in the dark garage
With your sack of garbage: it is not your job
The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding. You ought to know
I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling
There was an apple tree in the yard --
this would have been
forty years ago -- behind,
only meadows. Drifts