I wish I had a job,
just for the sheer joy of motoring back
through twilight, as the streets lighten
windows down? volume up?
maybe going home to pieces of me
little toes, shoes as long as my palm
I will love you as my own, for
you are mine and I will be yours.
(you will make me home)
Look at this beautiful video of a beautiful man singing about beautiful things.
“What in our lives is burnt
In the fire of this?
The heart’s dear granary?
The much we shall miss?
Three lives hath one life—
Iron, honey, gold.
The gold, the honey gone—
Left is the hard and cold.
Iron are our lives
Molten right through our youth.
A burnt space through ripe fields,
A fair mouth’s broken tooth.”
so I, gleaming in wedding blue,
say, “you look beautiful today!”
to lace on sky-cloth, hair like clouds
behind round-rimmed glass, her cerulean eyes glitter with tears
and she tells me that it can’t be true
her sister was always prettier, even when they were kids
so she just accepted it and kept living
translucent skin quivering around cracked lipstick
and now she (thinks)knows she can’t be beautiful because she is 92 years old.
she loves my voice and hair, though. Heavens yes.
this thanks I give
over heavy-laden heads and hands
fingers red-white as they shake together.
watching the aged crown of white stammer,
tell me of your lifestory and cry proudly
over your grandchild’s hand,
his blue eyes are yours.