Ah! flower not to be touched, Ah! flower of transparent secrets, Ah! flower of boleros,

I give you two gardenias in love Standing in the garden after the Fall. Look here, look at me, with your eyes

Of whorls, bend down your lined Eyes, stems of spring green. Cure me of this long sickness

This mark of Cain I wear, A burning coal between my eyes, Touch me, touch me before winter

Snows with your snowy hands. How I seek to drown in the rain- Drop of your fragrance!

Ah! flower of absences, Here are two gardenias In love.

[1]

She stands up, still, Like carnations In a florist’s window.

I am on the street, On a clear fall day After few, many, days of rain

Eyeing her. I have tied My hunger down To my spine. Shop glass,

Silica of years and miles, Also gives back to sight Silvers of myself on petals

Of afternoon light. Darkness Meanwhile burrows deeper In the hollows of my fingerbones.

[2]

Say yes. I am waiting to unbolt my fist. I am waiting to root you in my chest.

Say yes. I am waiting to go on wandering into The unceasing and changing seasons Wearing a flaming shirt of carnations.

(after Milosz)

[1]

Overhearing the subtext, those unvoiced Words flowing underneath that hour of gossip, My mind grew troubled and my heart Filled with guilt and torment.

Let the devil have love (in small letters) and it’s Attendant curses - romance, music Of flesh, grandiose day dreams, and that Which always comes at last: Disappointment

With a sack of bitter coins – quarrels, denunciations, Scratched faces, broken bangles, tears – thrown over Its crooked back.

[2]

In those rare moments when I feel (perhaps another Trick of mind) I am rising towards distant Infinity I sometimes look back, both in pain And wonder, at my pitiful buffoonery.

Then inspired by the devil know what, I imitated Other saints and sinners in composing verses, All of which have passed, thankfully, into oblivion. Why didn’t I hear that clear ringing of a gong

Rattling my teeth as my hungry tongue exchanged Words mixed with saliva, with those other tongues? How many soap operas have I directed featuring Minor white lies? What are those beautiful masks

Under which I have concealed my face racked With desire and revulsion? And finally to what Purpose this horrible confession?

[3]

Dear, the devil might well be drawing all these lines, As many of my previous others, yet somehow LOVE (in capital letters) must exist, if only as dots Of this puzzled life, if only as flowers in autumn rain.