Someone is walking up and down the street
crying “My lost love, my lost love!”
without shame or consolation.
On a day for columbine and lilac,
for hearing leaves sigh in the wind,
so many spring groves are in the making,
so many different orchestras tuning up.
My lost love: a refrain which scatters like bird shot.
How many of us have gone to the window
feeling the words pierce our morning.
In my room, gardenias once:
your body floating over me, my skin
rearranging like water under your touch
and your urgent heart, that loveliest extravagance.
Poor man outside, whose sadness
idles like a hearse in front of all our doors.
And some of us climbing in without meaning to!
In the way you held your neck,
Kiss me you would say: then the world releasing
its perfumes from the garden of gardens,
and the body speaking in tongues again
wildly without reason,
without any hope for reason.