With only this one dream

Understand, I'll slip
quietly away from the noisy
crowd when I see 
the pale stars rising, blooming over
the oaks. I'll pursue solitary
pathways through the pale
twilit meadows with only this
one dream: you come too.

Absence

My love,
we have found each other
thirsty and we have
drunk up all the water and the blood,
we found each other
hungry
and we bit each other
as fire bites,
leaving wounds in us.

But wait for me,
keep for me your sweetness.
I will give you too
a rose.

One day

One day, tens of millions of years from now, someone will find me rusted into the mud of a world they have never seen, and when they crumble me between their fingers, it will be you they find.

~Jeanette Winterson, The Stone Gods

Love Poem from First Indian on the Moon

We have learned/
that love is never civilized.

Love letter to a stranger

Who was it
that said our souls know one another
by smell, like horses?

~What a beautiful thought...a poem in itself. 

Some Extensions on the Sovereignty of Science

The smallest muscle in the human body is in the ear.
It is also the only muscle that does not have blood vessels;

It has fluid instead. The reason for this is clear:
The ear is so sensitive that the body, if it heard its own pulse,

Would be devastated by the amplification of its own sound.
In this knowledge I sense a great metaphor,

But I do not want to be hasty in trying to capture or describe it.
Words are our weakest hold on the world.

Why a man cannot have wings

Because he is lonely enough without being able to
Frame the house he lives in between his forefinger and thumb.

...

And so I wait for you like a lonely house.
  Until you will see me again. 
    And live in me. 
          Until then 
              my windows ache.

From "The Alchemist"

so i love you/
because/
the entire universe conspired/
to help me find you

...

I know history. There are many names in history/but none of them are ours.

Absence

On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more
than someone else’s presence, so I say no thanks

to the woman who throws her girdle at my feet...

...

If losing me/is the worst thing to happen,/your life is still a good life.

From Twenty One Love Poems

Since we're not young, weeks have to do time
for years of missing each other. Yet only this odd warp
in time tells me we're not young.
Did I ever walk the morning streets at twenty,
my limbs streaming with a purer joy?
did I lean from any window over the city
listening for the future
as I listened here with nerves tuned for your ring?
And you, you move toward me with the same tempo.
Your eyes are everlasting, the green spark
of the blue-eyed grass of early summer,
the green-blue wild cress washed by the spring.
At twenty, yes: we thought we'd live forever.
At forty-five, I want to know even our limits.
I touch you knowing we weren't born tomorrow,
and somehow, each of us will help the other live,
and somewhere, each of us must help the other die.

Spaces

I wish I never met you
and I wish you never left.

You taste like a river in June.

"Turning Twenty-Three"

Above the corrugated, elastic lake
the darkening sky holds out its arms.
A thousand miles away, you're turning twenty-three

I repeat your name, each time different
into sand, into moonlight.

Far off, the lake crumbles at its edges,
the sky holds out its arms.

The Art of Blessing the Day

This is the blessing for a ripe peach:
This is luck made round. Frost can nip
the blossom, kill the bee. It can drop,
a hard green useless nut. Brown fungus,
the burrowing worm that coils in rot can
blemish it and wind crush it on the ground.
Yet this peach fills my mouth with juicy sun.

A color of the sky

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store

and the police station,

a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;



overflowing with blossomfoam,

like a sudsy mug of beer;

like a bride ripping off her clothes,



dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,



so Nature's wastefulness seems quietly obscene.

It's been doing that all week:

making beauty,

and throwing it away,

and making more.

Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Filthy Radiance

And when we are dead,

and our incandescent skin has dimmed,

and hangs in blackened rags on honeycomb bones,

our electric limbs are stilled by soil,

and the flesh that we have loved so fiercely

has all gone into the darkened tomb,

our luminous leavings will linger here,

haunting the impassive dune,

testament to a time when the base matter of

our lustful bodies was transfigured,

and we laid ourselves open to possesion by light.

Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry

The moon put her white hands
on my shoulders, looked into my face,
and without a word
sent me into the night.