What The Old Woman Said About Love
After spring has brought her basket of eggshells
and autumn has pulled her naked tent-pegs
sixty-six times, love looks mostly
like a toy with all its wheels off, laid down gently,
left out to revolve in a kaleidoscope of rust;
or a glimpse of blue wings moving,
disappearing in clear day, some legend's
feather passing, blurred in the ache of sky.
Sleeping senses kick up a clumsy memory
of summers you breathed roses
on the terrace of my breasts, when stars
sifted down, sand-paintings in your eyes,
pinprick constellations on a floor of desert night.
What was it I said, dancing out the story of tomorrow,
pattering on dust, how it could never end?
How it would last, because it must?
Poem 22 for April