Summer is late, my heart. Words plucked out of the air some forty years ago when I was wild with love and torn almost in two scatter like leaves this night of whistling wind and rain. It is my heart that's late, it is my song that's flown. Outdoors all afternoon under a gunmetal sky staking my garden down, I kneeled to the crickets trilling underfoot as if about to burst from their crusty shells; and like a child again marveled to hear so clear and brave a music pour from such a small machine. What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire. The longing for the dance stirs in the buried life. One season only, and it's done. So let the battered old willow thrash against the windowpanes and the house timbers creak. Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.

Consider our mad loves: J's for B that he only knew after she ripped out the hook. Smell rain and whose name do you say? G and R seem okay but A's ripping the cover off T's book, the cashier then asking if he'd like a damage discount and who doesn't deserve a damage discount? The heart itself apparently can be eaten, singed on a bed of baby greens. Half step, half step, clap, throw the hive upon the lap. A silver head floats in the corn. At least M has his daughter. A silver head floats at the portal. Like a dried gourd, the rattle K makes. The dream bread falls through the dream hands. Two seconds it took you to do what you did to me. Here's a breast, an eye. Here's a necessity. Flinchclatter dovespun sundrove heartsprung and sometimes the wreckage assumes recognizable shapes. Sure it does. Touch this. Maybe your father was right to hate me. I was running as fast as I could. Maybe faster. Forever and forever and forever

                     I have been wondering

        What you are thinking about, and by now suppose
	
                     It is certainly not me.

        But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering
	
                     Blood knows what it knows.

It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea.

                     Of course, it is talking of you.

        At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights,
	
                     The sun plants one lithe foot

        On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming through
	
                     Its warm Arabian nights,

Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.

                     Who shall, of course, be nameless.

        Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my best,
	
                     As I'm sure you have, too.

        Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless
	
                     Whose names are not confessed

In the ceaseless palaver. My dearest, the clear unquaried blue

                      Of those depths is all but blinding.

        You may remember that once you brought my boys
	
                     Two little woolly birds.

        Yesterday the older one asked for you upon finding
	
                     Your thrush among his toys.

And the tides welled about me, and I could find no words.

                     There is not much else to tell.

        One tries one's best to continue as before,
	
                     Doing some little good.

        But I would have you know that all is not well
	
                     With a man dead set to ignore

The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.

just a Great poem! S