Sunday, June 27, 2010

Home: A Lover's Quarrel



There are some to whom a place means nothing,
for whom the lazy zeroes
a goshawk carves across the sky
are nothing
for whom a home is something one can buy.
I have long wanted to say,
just once before I die
I am home.




When I remember the sound of my country,
I hear winds
high up in the evergreens, the soft snore
of surf, far off, on a winter day
the half-garbled song of finches
darting off through alder
on a summer day




Lust does not
fatigue the soul, I say. This wind,
these ever-
green trees, this little bird of spirit-
this is the shape, the place of my desire. I'm free
as a fish or a stone




Don't tell me
about the seasons in the East, don't talk to me
about eternal California summer.
It's enough to have
a few naked days
among three hundered kinds of rain




I love the sound of a storm
without thunder, the way wind
slows, trees darken, heavy clouds
rumbling so soft
you must close your eyes to listen:
then the blotch, blotch
of big drips,
plunkering through the leaves

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