Cagey
— after Argerich
Now I write on/above love,
wholehearted letters to
shapes held for both of us;
the letters spill like mouths
her; her hair is caught;
we have time to untangle
it, but neither has sd. Her
eyes keep trim, so I cup
one while another cums.
Darn has little time to work,
so little over them, eyes close
to the thimble, to little pick.
My poems move jauntily;
quiet, I sit with them.
Quiet
Clove crisp of thought day
miracle of control to storm,
calming scent, almost light
liturgy, that relief, being with
both, and knowing I suffice drops,
so we are each more intimate
than the same;
dawn breaks on to waves.