Gone, you know I am gone
Like blood on a knee-
The holy river.
But I didn't fall down stairs
Or crawl through arid regions
For this vision of suffering,
I merely applied the red paint.
I take too many vows,
I steal too many robes
From expensive hotels,
I always leave the bible in the drawer; intact.
I need to follow from one face to the next.
If I found that grinning head which I might fall into
I might run for the nearest shadow.
I can't bear to fall from pretenses
Such as my own bloodshed.
Lover, if I offer each face,
Leaving the steam as my only trace,
Will you sit unmovable and count the moons with me?
Why don't we get married on a river,
Start a book, get dirty in relation?
I am offering everyone this poet enters,
Perhaps I am shoving it upon you.
Perhaps I suffer now, apart from you
Like one who knows God
But cannot find his hand to lead.
Polished timidity. . .
Wait; remembrance is a color too.
Walk in your shady substances
Throughout the tender matchbox
As I follow the trail of ash
Into your pocket
Where I find
One autumn branch
Of a big leafed Maple
Moving into its hiding place:
The unknown subtle colors
Though you walk through every hour.