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The Pulse of Wonder
Because she understands books,
or she doesnt understand books;
then turns and gives the looks
of love and loss and murmurs:
It doesnt matter anyway.
And then in the hallway,
the faint wafting of her perfume
mingling with the scent of our mutual decay.
And we are lost in rooms
behind doors of anothers keying.
And we walk without seeing
that, even now, spirit informs
the matter of everything,
and the walls in which we sing
seem so immaterial.
I cannot bring you, ethereal,
to the precipice of my own indecision,
or derision at seeing myself falling,
or crawling back to you.
You lift your face to me and I see
that the sky is so heavy in your eyes.
We will watch the sunset,
and in a minute the moon
will call for further crying;
And, yes, dying that nothing,
nothing conforms to reason and
in the end we are so very small.
And I will kiss
the weary mystery from your eyes,
while not spoiling the surprise of why
we came binomial into this being.
Goodbyes
are what we come into the world saying,
praying that all the stars arent telling lies.
And I might wish that I could come again,
wailing in the cradle of your thighs;
and back again
much further than our conceiving.
Heaving,
I plant a little kiss on the pulse of wonder;
cock my ear to hear the thunder,
whisper goodbye, kill the muffled cry,
when unsheathed our tandem claws
do rend our love asunder.
- Ellis Glover
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