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I am four monkeys. One hangs from a limb, tail-wise, chattering at the earth; another is cramming his belly with cocoanut; the third is up in the top branches, quizzing the sky, and the fourth— he's chasing another monkey. How many monkeys are you?
This poem is in the public domain.
Moon dance,
you were not to blame.
Nor you,
lovely white moth.
But I saw you together.
He goes along,
in his thin flesh,
narrow bones,
slow blood,
old hat,
old clothes,
old shoes,
singing for love, battling for love.
He will go down,
in thinner flesh,
We are molecules—
whose fate it is to quarrel—
who knows why?
It isn’t when we're underfoot—
it’s when we’re in the air—
two of us after one air-hole!
We don't do it—
we like being still—
it’s the wind does it!
Do lovers know why?