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In
a tangled country, when all the camphor
Unlit has been drawn out, when all going is gone,
And the watchmen no longer ask questions,
Only then will love without its veil be put before.
She placed her right hand behind my head
(Not one single hint of sisters or December),
And carried me pleasant into the blesséd
House where I roamed for hours. Spears and banners
Overcame. Who is this that calls beloved?
A prodigal without swine. A bumpkin slipping
Into the thick of the theater crowd, comforting
A woman who beckons only a temporary bed.
There is a seal over his mouth and no mountain
Moves toward him. The lamp is kept low.
So there comes, in our dark night, over the nation,
A carillon sounding a sound that means us go.
A thirsty woman never questions water.
Who knows of love that has not swallowed black
Milk to make himself whole? They whisper your
Secrets without a single insinuation of cunt or cock,
A tedious pageant meant somehow to pour
Pleasure into the raveled hearts among the briar.
My love is diesel and overgrown, a liquor mired
In apathy's faucet, honey in the well, cracked.
Smoke decrying our statehood rages offshore,
Pushing up the stairwell, blackening the spire's
Must. You said it to me once, now I say it back:
Never mistrust the simplicity of desire.
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