Tuesday, September 18, 2007

You cannot know

You cannot know

Just what you mean to me.
Or how I’d hurt were you to suffer me
But see me not, unless of course you feel
Much as I do.

‘Tis no small thing to heal
My heart’s regrets with a sigh, to reach
Across the gap between our skins and teach
My soul to cry

Again. But then you’ll cut me.
That which heals also hurts. So flee me,
Fly from me when storms about me reel
Like ants drawn to a broken seal
On some great cask.

I hope that we two might each
Lean anew to hope and love. I beseech
You, stay if I am food to help you grow . . .
But if I’m poison, I pray that you will go.

October 2004


The open gate beckons my soul
into its dark solitude.
The warm sodium glow speaks of
sepia and fairies.
Victoria where are you now?
Do you look down upon your
subjects with mirth and
amusement in this later day?

Do the foibles of the people reflect or
reject the foibles of your court?

Once through the gate, that iron gate
in its limestone arch,

I choose the left-hand path.
It’s habit now, but this is the path of
darkness and mystery.
I follow it to its inevitable conclusion in
picturesque ruins.
Where else could such a path ever end?

How many paths lead this way?
How many gateways lead here?
Whose is the unmarked headstone in the West,
Past the stags and stables and gates?

October 2004