How to Love
After stepping into the world again,
there is that question of how to love,
how to bundle yourself against the frosted morning—
the crunch of icy grass underfoot, the scrape
of cold wipers along the windshield—
and convert time into distance.
What song to sing down an empty road
as you begin your morning commute?
And is there enough in you to see, really see,
the three wild turkeys crossing the street
with their featherless heads and stilt-like legs
in search of a morning meal? Nothing to do
but hunker down, wait for them to safely cross.
As they amble away, you wonder if they want
to be startled back into this world. Maybe you do, too,
waiting for all this to give way to love itself,
to look into the eyes of another and feel something—
the pleasure of a new lover in the unbroken night,
your wings folded around him, on the other side
of this ragged January, as if a long sleep has ended.
|Apr 17, 2007||Mixed Mode||Geoffrey G. O'Brien|
|Apr 18, 2007||Second Draft||James Longenbach|
|Apr 19, 2007||April||Sally Van Doren|
|Apr 20, 2007||For the Confederate Dead||Kevin Young|
|Apr 21, 2007||Concordance [Working backward in sleep]||Mei-mei Berssenbrugge|
|Apr 21, 2007||Concordance [Our conversation is a wing]||Mei-mei Berssenbrugge|
|Apr 22, 2007||Consider the Hands that Write This Letter||Aracelis Girmay|
|Apr 23, 2007||In the old days a poet once said||Ko Un|
|Apr 24, 2007||The Baby||Kate Northrop|
|Apr 25, 2007||Thing||Rae Armantrout|