What He Would Not
Tell Him
I often wonder, how many ribs does
it take
to cage your leonine heart?
When was it we counted them last?
Was it too long ago, or never?
One, two, three...
It really seems odd, darling,
but there appears to be a mistake
somewhere,
one's missing.
Or does my preening tongue's
slight pressure deceive me?
I don't know what to make
of it, do you?
And why was it last night,
afterwards, those words,
I love you,
so easily caught in your throat?
When we awaken
it is the door closing behind us
that startles us so
And the sound of someone's long
feet
running down
the dream-hallway
Someone we could have known
and loved
Perhaps then the moon is a collapsed
star, only closer to earth,
and asleep.
Tomorrow it may well flare up,
an angry stallion,
our mechanical spurs dug too deep.
Feathers of pure light
filling my notebook's last page.
The way the pickaxe stands in the
great shadow
of the tank-car
The last patch of ice cleared
from the tracks,
The rock salt spread
We could get stoned for the rest
of the day
In the morning I awaken and find
myself
still inside you.
Beneath my skin, a tree is about
to break
into a green gallop.
We go out together
looking for hoofprints
in the sand.
There are tiny forests growing inside
each one.
You've always tasted of wintergreen.
CONTENTS
The
Day After page 1
Poem
Against the Reagan Administration page 2
At
a Rally in Washington Against the Draft page 2
America
Revisited page 3
Poems
for a Small Place to Rest page
4 page 5 page
6
What
He Would Not Tell Him page 7
Waking
Poem page 7
Moon
page 7
Laborers
page 7
Spring
1980 page 7
Lebanon
1982 page 8
As
the Latin American War Approaches page 8
Poem
for Immediate Disarmament page 8
To
Whom It May Concern page 9
Song
of the Little Girl page 10