from On Love: a poem sequence


There was this sound
then nothing after;
a quickness
then what quickened you;
a style then
how we stood aside
like a generous condemnation,
like delight
at something gone,
never to be confused
again with coming.

Then there was this ache
and nowhere you’d rather be.

There was this murmur
and no heart
but a crowd of beats
and sorrow.

Where does it lead?
Where does ache follow
but where we couldn’t
And then you denounce
and I remove your pronouncements
like love.
How silent love is,
shaking us off.
We are tempted
and near;
we are slow
and desired.
What can happen in a day
but more day.
More heart to melt
the cold
like you could be
And satisfaction
is set aside.
We are compassionate,
done with keeping time,
full of beauty
nearly loved.


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