And I saw you, the brightening.
Clouds came crashing like dead metaphors
pregnant with passion and all
the wrath of love turned little, and all
rain. Mostly it was just rain.
But I stood there in the field of my being
and turned my eyes up to the sun and the moon,
which are my eyes,
and turned them up and saw reflected in the very face
of the sun (which was not the sun but my left eye)
and seeing it seen made me ashamed,
made me very ashamed, hot and very ashamed.
Do not repeat yourself; it is not interesting.
Do not repeat. You are not interesting.
It seeps through the flesh of me like rain
rejected by dry soil and flung up, this tangle of sound.
Tangled I am and full of sound.
I see your face; I dig a hole
in the dry ground and I spit dead water at the sun
and at the moon I spit dead water.