No _?

remember the word is the poem you wrote

a thought for her to think as she holds it in her hand

a crooked pilaster a wooden bowl a jewel of substance

the transcendent singer of her heart not a coat

for summer and winter but my walking through memory and

pain which makes the face's difference a vowel separate

standing a part solitary in its quietness not noticing

the things you recalled when strolling and parked you

picked the things which meant the most to earth and other poets

radical sun worker across Nineveh and sky between the lassoed

letter S that occurred at each dot in the magnificent

earth world, the magnificent dead word back to life,

leap back like Christ might out of the grave,

Now wouldn't that be a hope, Mister proxy in the middling

earth




A coat not a jacket where loves are gentled

a verb to hum your hallowing in not penalted

by the racket







I see her many times, her forms were manifold

still I could not reach, and were these eyes mine

were they the ones to undo a woman's cold

body repelling back suitors and eyes nine

and ten and twenty times a day saddled with hate?

I don't know dear Doctor I am not the one to know.