Poetry Friday


Look. Listen. They are lighting
The moon. Be still. I don’t want
To hear again that wistful
Kyriale of husbands and lovers
Stop questioning me
About my women. You are
Not a schoolgirl nor I a
Lecturing paleobotanist.
It’s enough that the green glow
Runs through the down on your arms
Like a grass fire and your eyes
Are fogs of the same endless light.
Let the folds and divisions
Of your anatomy envelop
All horizons. O my sweet
Topology and delusions,
You may be arrogant and feral
But no clock can measure
How long ago you fell asleep
In my arms in the midst of
Sliding doors, parting curtains,
Electric fishes and candy lotuses
And the warm wet moonlight.

  — Kenneth Rexroth