White morning, plants growing, we are two small dark figures, just a different set of shapes casting smaller shadows than the other species, but will we still steal the grass’ light or just grind it beneath bare feet. We practice making the sounds of the river. Can we contain them all? If we move our tongues slow enough, but not so slow as to sound like the leaves or rose petals dropping on the stems— they fall from sickness, so we let their last words be their own. Now we are in the river moving holy water with our hands. Now we are in the river moving, holy. With water on our hands, now we are. In the river we are moving holy water, and our hands move, as in dreams, and water’s striders waltz above them, tiny insect christs, who stare with us, breathless, at the wild iris in the field.
You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t
me, it was love for you that set me
and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn’t
you like the eggs a little
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather