17

Come at night, sit on my bed
Watch my chest ride the waves,
My corrugated brow now taut,
The mouth half-open,
Its corners playing host and guest.

Working men have gone to bed
But they'll wake and continue
In a muddle of mud or dust.
I fly above the narrow puddle
Past crowded houses

Where trophies are displayed
On empty mantleplaces
Above cheerless fires,
Slipping in conversation
From one association to the next,
Unwilling to hold a single thought
In a real embrace.

The song in which I live, singing
To an ear bent to its own song
Lives and listens 'til it ends.

Until it ends it's fortress, field,
Wall and arching tree above it;
Fruit of womb and apple tree:
The embracing eye's delight
Hid between the mother's breasts
Who waits to show her husband
That for which he battles
Bone to bone in the world.

Deaf ears it seems must own loud mouths
And long dirks, and watchful eyes
Eager to tear, to laugh at misfortune.
My song and its echo hovers above them
And pities their pitiful fortunes:

May they be glad with their toys;
And may they leave some for their boys!
Me? after a peaceful night I'll wake

In the arms that hold the song—
A crystal glass
Hoisting the meniscus.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998