Tuesday, December 13, 2011

I Ask Too Much

Why doesn’t losing the light of a thousand other
faces turned away put my heart likewise in the dark?
Turn to me.
You don’t need to say a single word. In fact,

each crumb of sweetest manna
from your mouth turned mealy in my hand. Look here:
I have been clinging, starved enough to hope
blank-eyed for a miracle. The worms dig

greedy in my palm. But rotten things
don’t heal!—Where’d reason go?
Consistency, come here. It’s time to choose:
to die each time some other moon

turns new, or love the sun alone. I run
hard against the curve of earth to catch
sight of the back of your head and now
I’m tired.