From The Garden

Come, my beloved, consider the lilies. We are of little faith. We talk too much. Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks. Let us consider the view: a house where white clouds decorate the muddy halls. Oh, put away your good words and your bad words. Spit out your words like stones! Come here! Come here! Come eat my pleasant fruits.

LOVE SONG FOR K. OWYNE

When I lay down for death my love came down to Craigy's Sea and fished me from the snakes. He let me use his breath. He pushed away the mud and lay with me And lay with me in sin.

I washed lobster and stale gin off your shirt. We lived in sin in too many rooms. Now you live in Ohio among the hard fields of potatoes, the gray sticks and the bad breath of the coal mines. Oh Love, you know how the waves came running up the stairs for me, just as the nervous trees in Birnam wood crept up upon Macbeth to catch his charmed head turning and well aware I was not safe. I heard the army in the sea move in, again and again, against me.

Shuffled between caring and disgrace I took up all our closet space. What luxury we first checked into, to growl like lawyers until I threw my diamonds and cash upon the floor. You'd come for death. I couldn't suit you until the sun came up as mild as a pear and the room, having hurt us, was ours. You sang me a song about bones, dinosaur bones. Though I was bony you found me fair. In the bay, the imported swans drank for hours like pale acrobats or gently drunken flowers.

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