They’ve Taken Out the Sun, But At Least They Left the Moon
Empty the staircase stares at me like an ancient figure in want of respect
but the cellar door is right in the living room
and I too have forgotten which way to bow.
Oh lady at the counter of the kiosk,
oh imaginary hairdresser whom I love,
won’t you come into this vagrant dream
and take the part of my love, the witch
whose knowing eyes I dare not meet in the middle of this dense emptiness.
Remember how you guided me in my wanderings,
as if you knew the horses better than I did
(which you probably did, since I hardly knew them at all),
how you graced me with the divine smile of your eyes,
how you gently touched my hand when you took the coins
and placed them in your heart’s safe
and then in the cold metallic cash register?
And how I fed you strawberries when you opened your mouth
(Needless to say, this was in a dream.)
What happened to our love when its first flame burned out
in the menacing autumn wind?
Did we manage to delve into one another, build a fireplace
before it withered away?
Yes, we did,
however it wasn’t quite soon enough
to preserve the original inspiration
which brought us all the way here.
That’s why we now have to skip some lines
(which would probably have been rather dull anyway)
and step right into the end of the poem
(but hopefully not step ON it, especially not with our boots on)
which goes something like this:
I am your battered hand.
I am your rope decorated neck.
I am your leftmost lung, gasping.
I am your frequent inaptitude
on the muddy waters
of your innate excavations.