A guest, as different from you
as leaves are from flowers, called
under the temperate stars, and lisped
your name – a pale, almost
slippery word, slighter than a mayfly
or the ‘wheet’ of a melancholy bird.
What did it mean? the guest,
the inadequate tongue, the gradual failure
as if – from a higher to a lower rung –
everything slipped or ceased? All I know
is nowhere seems more substantial now
than this palace of air, than these empires of words.
A slimmer nowhere interposes singularity, though
who was the guest who called? Was the feast
farce? I know I dined. I remember
a driven beast, breast to breast with tormenting furies,
then a cold dawn, whispering flames, leaping water,
charcoal burnt beyond burning.
Let me guess the rest
in this narcosis of intolerable yearning.
(from “”Love” Poems For Kathy / Green. Laced. Leaves”)
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