The Coming of Light

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

Worth

It astonished him when he got to Katmandu to hear

the man from the embassy say a friend was waiting

outside of customs. It was the Australian woman

he had met in Bali. His fault for running back

across the tarmac when he realized she was crying.

Kissing her while the plane waited with the door open.

Wanting her to feel valuable. Now she had used up all

her money flying to Nepal. Calling what had been

what it was not. Now lying awkwardly on the bed

for a month, marooned in the heat, the Himalayas

above the window. As he watched the delicate dawns

and the old women carrying too much firewood down

from the mountain on their backs. Him thinking of their

happiness up in the lush green terraces of rice.

Remembering her laughter as he came out of the shower,

saying the boy had come again with a plate of melon.

"He asked if you were my husband," she said, "and I

said you were my father." Her eyes merry. Now they sat

in cheap restaurants trying to find anything to say.

Remembering how beautiful she was the first time

coming through the palm trees of the compound at dusk.

Tall and thin in a purple dress that reached to her

bare feet. Watching while he played chess with

the Austrian photographer all night. Now calling

that good thing by the wrong name. Destroying

something valuable. Innocently killing backwards.

Valentine Weather

Kiss me with rain on your eyelashes,

come on, let us sway together,

under the trees, and to hell with thunder.