I have learned not to worry about love;
but to honor it's coming
with all my heart.
To examine the dark mysteries
of the blood
with headless heed and 
swirl,
to know the rush of feelings
swift and flowing
as water.

The source appears to be 
some inexhaustible
spring
within our twin and triple 
selves;
the new face I turn up
to you
no one else on earth
has ever
seen. 






A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
   All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet--
   One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
   "My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."
Love long has taken for his amulet
   One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
   One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
   One perfect rose.






Sunset is always disturbing
whether theatrical or muted, 
but still more disturbing
is that last desperate glow
that turns the plain to rust
when on the horizon nothing is left
of the pomp and clamor of the setting sun.
How hard holding on to that light, so tautly drawn and different,
that hallucination which the human fear of the dark
imposes on space
and which ceases at once
the moment we realize its falsity,
the way a dream is broken
the moment the sleeper knows he's dreaming.






Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

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