for Natalie

What is this word
not spoken but spelled
by your hips?

A word my blood knows, Lady—
the day spins with it!

Seven letters written
in the soft shine on your lips.

Ahhh.

___________    

Shouldn’t the heart be allowed
a thousand loves, to hold at least

half of what it wants?  Or maybe
just a kiss and a hug. I’m trying

to keep my balance, trying not to
act up—stare salaciously, bark

like a squirrel, but look how long
death is—and how it lingers, how

in comparison, a life is an inch-worm
limping its inchy way up the most

unhelpful goddam tree!

___________  

Isn’t madness the most
reasonable thing? These words

in my head, this hive
of stutters.  I’m on the fade

but keep coming back
to that good light, your

long legs, that slow walk—

I can’t believe
you’re moving at all.

Shhhh.
No use arguing!

___________  

Sometimes I think the noise
of what I feel should be enough

to make everybody less likely
to give up, less likely to let loneliness

have its way—so I shake my soul
like Crackerjacks, bang my head

like a kettle drum.  When the Spirit
doesn’t answer, isn’t this racket

exactly what it wants to say?  

___________  

Maybe life is just a few names
swung into motion.  

Someone calls out, “Tim, how are you?”
I turn around hoping

someone can tell me. What I understand
is so small, so quick: it disappears

like a hummingbird’s fart!
Even Rumi shrugs at what I mean.

Huuuu.

___________  

But sometimes my heart
knocks me over

like some brand new brazen beast—
so much hope, so many thirsty cups.

Lady, I want your thighs around me
like Daylight—like wild grass

wants all that green.  Look,
I’d like to, but I can’t

shut up.  I keep getting older:
and this is no dream!