fell over
of its own weight
and the long root like a horse tail
gave in to the sand's giving up —
I could not help but think
the ending, wavering stem
felt light and free
in my hand.
I who would snatch you back
from that other place —
my whole heart goes with this —
I who always considered
how you sit here
to be a miracle —
so outwardly still
my last breath
makes an indentation —
I who rage ceaselessly
after my desires
and bring the spoils to you
considering to catch myself
a miracle —
that I should grow
so rooted in one place
in my mind
that it should not waver
unless to discern itself better
— from that one place
may all grief come
to your jungles of Africa
All this talk! And maybe if I lived
in this city, I wouldn't be each time to you
like a plant. What happens in the mind, that
honey
stays, viscous, turbid crystals, doesn't taste.
And you and I, half-met and all each other's,
try
new ways of keeping the leaves green
lest blossoms spill and fade. No, we can't go
together out in the snow without laughing,
