Friday, June 24, 2011

Trade Life for the Death I Lived

You open your mouth and meaning comes out.
Not metaphorically,
the way I do,
the way I’m doing now—no, but the way
that the stars I mean by saying stars
are stars: that’s how you make them.
You spoke. Are speaking.

They say truth is our private meaning-making.
They haven’t read your poetry.
Here, here; an aching here:

You have light the way I have disaster:
endless forms.
You are love the way I am wanting.
And you say I Am; here is truth, here beauty
the way chaos speaks me.
You call me beloved; I call out
Come.