Page XVII
 
 







I sleep restlessly.
A fierce wind is blowing outside.
How many leaves like dreams broken off
will lie in the courtyard in the morning?
 
 
 
 

The field in Provincetown we slept in together
the summer before last -
Have the same wild grasses returned this year?
 
 
 
 

Autumn winds moan around the abandoned lighthouse
                  at the end of the Cape -
Voices of men drowned far out at sea
 
 
 
 

If I had known that you were coming
I'd have had the room full of flowers and light,
and the bed as unkempt as we last left it.
 
 
 
 

Maybe then I'll die like this -
pen in hand, the epic poem that would have made me
immortal, never to be written....
 
 
 
 

After the earthquake, how purple the flowers of the morning
                  glory trailing the balcony floor
 
 
 
 

They've swept up the leaves that fell
last night from the autumn fig tree,
but these early morning dreams linger on
 
 
 
 

To the blind man's eyes, flowers.
To the deaf man's ears, music.
Now that you're here, they arrive -
the flowers and the music.
 
 
 
 

I have no way to be with him
except to appear in his dreams.
What he must think of me
coming to see him like this,
I may never know.
 
 
 
 

Our time together is like an oasis
that blooms in the midst of the everyday desert.
Though we don't know its name,
we kneel to drink from that sacred spring.
 
 
 
 

dawn breaks -
           firefly climbs up my sleeve,
light faintly flickering
 
 
 
 

no one else to talk to -
         autumn moon is nearly full
over Banderas Bay
 
 
 
 

My friends tell me they don't understand
what it is I see in you.
For this I consider myself fortunate, or else
they would want you as much as I do.
 
 
 
 

July evening rains -
         no end in sight,
no lights across the bay
 
 
 
 

On a walk through the cemetery -
     more flowers in bloom
than tombstones
 
 
 
 

The scorching heat and sand -
     the sound of the waves
is cool
 
 
 
 

the summer heat
           soaks into everything -
the cry of the cicada
 
 
 
 

the scarecrow,
with all the stuffing knocked out of him
is still a scarecrow
 
 
 
 

If the autumn clouds don't care
where they're drifting to,
send them my way
 
 
 
 

cock crow at 4 am -
     over the distant ridge
the summer moon appears
 
 
 
 

the moon in the pond -
       in the morning
not a trace of it
 
 
 
 

The flowers cover the coffin -
       but not one of them
can surpass his beauty in life
 
 
 
 

If only love would come
and knock me down, dead drunk -
then I could find my way home
 
 
 
 

The candle you left behind
I burn in your memory -
it weeps golden tears,
for I can not.
 
 
 
 

Here lies the famous hustler, Ramses.
He took his clothes off for everyone
but loved only one man, himself.
 
 
 
 

His look pricked my heart.
His next glance drew blood.
I'll go mad from the loss,
but I can't see enough of him.
 
 
 
 

In his mirror he fell in love
with his own beauty.
Time was time, and retrieved
what it had bestowed.
Now he's loveless and
hates the mirror.
 
 
 


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