to write of love
i must offer my
soul a seat across the room.
and laugh a little self-consciously
at the naive poiwer of its stemless eyes.
yes, yes i have embarrassed agreed,
both wine and his effects
come very unashamed -
fast and long lasting.
smiles
come from that lake
that lives around the corner
enough of small talk and avoidance.
do you know me, soul, when you are with him?
and if you do,
i'm afraid what Keats said about joy
was true
or was it what he said about sorrow?
no difference.
the world of the abstract has always
been done in painful
gray
which evenly burns you off the ground
to blue-green spitting fountians
and hands
get up from your chair
the is for stepping through
and walking toward
so our smiles can make love
e v e n l y
(July 23,1966)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem