I have a need to ventilate, to have my porous body—sockets
and holes—open to the bald-faced wind and have my heathen inner-stuff
tweedled like a reed flute and this piffle floats out. But walking on the
open road, I know even open roads, to be roads at all, are ruts.
With a careless beanfield on either side, off one more time, even you,
Mr. Out-in-the-Woods, might as well be stuffed in your hometown bucket.
And if these grim beams of trees are truly home, Sweet, as you say they are,
then the timberwolves would reclaim you by singing and that would be all.
The Moon would reclaim the timberwolves—not a snarl—soft keepsakes
asleep in the palm of Her hand. I would reclaim the Moon by picking
a white silk chrysanthemum and resting it on the branch beside Her.
Who would reclaim me? and say, “Blossom, we are not two. There is no road
to or from. You cannot write a love poem. You cannot walk away.”