within the confines of the soul,
all my elapsing gestures, transmigrate
into a silver bowl
language brimming over like snow
and that snow in the bowl
is language, is love,
is fearless choosing.

i said that i was born going away,
but the truth is, i was born
being left behind.  a teardrop falls
on the poem that i am writing,
i don't at once brush it away.  it spreads
on this measured line of indelible feeling,
falls on a poem by this poet far away
from your world, or any world,

whose most sophisticated wish is to walk
under a virtual tree with you,
recite poetry, carefully brush imaginary lint
from your lapel, and touch your hand
in a cold and desolate century. i remember
a small alley from childhood, leading to that
sea deep in my heart, a memory shining like
sunlight, so like a good poem, riding the wind,

flying over the sea and up the years,
to lodge inside my keyboard. i am trying to write
that naive and innocent poem,  that pure poem,
but my heart's not in it any more, not today
not any day, seeing that i must save humanity
from the excesses of my soul.  but a butterfly
lifts up from my page and tells me that i am translating,
only translating, standing on the deck of a boat

approaching towering waves, avoiding pirates,
and having to bear the sweat and tears
of a thousand poets before me.  better to be here,
than going to the supermarket, having to hear gossip
about the love affairs of other lives, better than dancing
at helsinki, under those measuring gazes, not knowing
which arrow is tipped with poison...

i have been standing
in the shade of a small tree for a long time,
watching love's last little remains--warm ashes--
rubbed on the virtual paper you've mailed to me.
please, let's try to make it to spring... the books
in my bookcase will firmly bite their lower lips,
as i endeavor to learn nothing new, because no death
was ever this depressing a departure.  but they say,

(and i will try to believe) that when fervent hope and trust
burn out, the real dark falls; and the soul's leaves
and branches begin to shine.  at this moment, in spite
of your doubts, i sense you, always close at hand;
and sometimes darkness is life's best compensation
ultimately, my stories are but a voice in exile
always emerging from behind, trying to catch up to you,
trying to say, in some obtuse way, by giving you all of myself
i love you.

i know it's safe in this walled city cobbled
out of many a forced metaphor
to plagiarize my twenty-one-year-old heart
because no one's going to read it
with it's broken promises, vagrant enthusiasms,
befuddling hints, and obliterated faith.

it's an ancient kingdom
whose once-known lines
i'm tracing
in the dark;
mostly history
whose possible future
has not yet been revealed.

in the first fold of morning light
my jaded heart is setting out
like a haggard gypsy caravan, wandering back
to that old copse of trust-filled beginnings,

inching toward an immeasurable darkness,
every year like a door left cracked open,
or a faucet dripping through the night,
or a three-corned tear in silk lingerie. . .

a fully cataloged museum of circumspection
and amputation. (for instance, 'there is always
a moment or two in the course of a theft
when you forget you're stealing something
and on top of that, you can't really stand
all this stealing going on.')

whoever runs off with something ought to
at least take care of it--
rains, hearts, shameless vows,
words waiting for me to force them
into another bad poem

do you think
that isolation
and loneliness
are turning me into an old woman
staying here among
the thin, dying          grasses

wiping away rust
from the inner workings
of the waterclock

just on the other side of this wall,
looking back     i can see
children clapping their hands
sunlight sparkles there   only for an instant
the waters of the lake are dark green
shadows melt into a kiss
on the grass there are drops of dew
also fallen leaves

winter takes off his wet boots
in the january thaw
life and clouds all mingle here
then snow falls again on this
small infinity

and at the end of this wall of stone
with its slow-growing lichens
hangs the flag of a shadow

even though it is true   that poets
never want to play by the rules
always demanding  that everything
should be beautiful

remember that the curve of my embrace is forever
it will never sink away
it is bent here for love
to protect the pure, cloudless sky
that is like a small cameo
pinned to infinity

it is love
that brings me closer
to that eternal blue