SECRET ADMIRER

SECRET ADMIRER

I know a child who prays nights

to the sun of beauty

so fish will swim in a stream

filled with light.

Hollow masks: air through eye sockets.

We are afraid to look.

This light: the crisp edges of the sand dunes

spend little time shaving stars

from the night sky.

He proposed, I'll keep your books

until you're eighty before I return them.

Lately, I've been receiving anonymous postcards

filled with cryptic messages:

this poetry by which we live.

(Most nights I sleep alone.)

Last rainstorm, the Alta Mira

almost slid back into the sea.

Close your eyes. Listen to the rain

on my roof.

The cat's voracious yawn

disturbs the air as you turn.

My car breaks down

the third time this month.

You ask me just what I plan to do

And tell me about the babies

you want to have before its too late.

We both sleep alone.

In the hot tub, we drink your first wine

and sing love songs in the downpour.

A neighbor throws both of his shoes.

How many times do we torture ourselves

before we realize we've had enough?

Use commas before.

use commas after.

Use commas to separate.

After a word separate

this language.

Alienation—there is enough reason

to be frightened. Turn down the music.

I'll try to speak more softly
and not sing when you do.

Another postcard arrives unsigned.

Birds fly together. Don't they know

the sky is an arena for thought?

These tiny competitions between us.

Another wedge driven home.

Bird wings. Clipped feathers:

At night thin men imagine golden birds

flying across the sky.

The sky is filled with blackbirds

obliterating the stars.

The window is open.

An indecipherable melody

rides the nightair on tiny hooves.

These words fly softly west,

away from the dawn birds.

Loosened from the lassos of the sun

we are small unchartered islands

rising

and sinking

at will.

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First draft

Why am I on this list? I know a child who prays to the beauty of the sun so that the fish will swim in a stream of light. The crisp edges of sandunes shave the air. He proposed, I’ll keep your music books until you’re 80. Hollow masks, air through the eye sockets. We are afraid to look into the eyes of others. Lately I’ve been reading anonymous postcards filled with cryptic messages, this poetry. The Alta Mira hotel almost slid into the sea last rain storm. Close your eyes. Listen to the rain on my roof. Filing cabinet store pieces of time. The cats voracious yawn and disturb the air. My car breaks down for the third time this month and I have no time to fix it. In the hot tub, we drink the first of your homemade wine and sing in the downpour like drowned cats. Use commas before, after—to set off two separate ideas. How many ways can we torture ourselves before we realize we’ve had enough? At night, thin men imagine golden birds flying across the sky. Blackbirds obliterating the stars. Alienation. There is enough reason to be frightened. Turn down the music and I’ll try to speak more softly. Lovely comforting colors, this living alone.

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