April 28, 2019

• ali baba

  

  sorrow always invades, perhaps at noon
  perhaps at dawn,  perhaps when
  the air is still and the morning is measured out
  in teaspoons and the coming afternoon
  starts sweeping the ground

  and you walk carefully down the steps
  like a frail ghost
  which is a little sad because
  the sunlight turns suddenly into
  a tired glance  ... you wonder if flowers
  in a vase or butterfly grass--
  those seasonal expressions
  replicated in a greenhouse--

  are they as good as real?

  all the furnaces of summer
  have not purified your heart of all its passion
  though now it shines brilliantly like a dagger
  too dangerous to give to another
  for fear of hurting yourself

  your heart drums thunderously
  and in the looking glass
  you think you see
  a face like an old temple grown with moss

  your wife calls...
  the master of ceremonies on TV
  sees you and smiles.  at night you are
  an apparition that has lost its way
  somewhere in my midnight pines

  if only i could hold
  your rustling desire
  close to me in the soughing wind

  but when you arise each day
  only dreams and last night's fallen hair
  are left on the pillow
  you remember Ali Baba and wonder

  if there is really a secret door

  • 6:19 am
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