Six Love Poems

Pleasure Island
There were never better days—
Giving reckless little speeches,
Dressing in one layer only:
Shoes, shirt, pants.
I wonder what it means.
The East Side marvels
At my stunt: coming out
At 31. On a hard bed
Some slender candy is lying
By me, wrapping her stripes
Around me, melting
On the sheets, So this
Is life, I tell myself,
Teasing my hair, dreaming of
Death in Venice, wearing white, dazzling
The rich girls. Warm breezes
Slide down where
My underwear should be. So
This is life.

The Power of Romanticism
In the clocktower
The koto player plays Webern
His wife is shy
But plays Schubert
In a devastating manner

His garden
Is full of ripe lemons
The symbolism of pears
Her landscape
The Fantasiestücke

The contact
With a more romantic time
Presses him
Into meditations
On the moon

Her soft fragile fingertips
Play the keys of their tower
And the night is theirs
To make as short
Or as long
As they please

Brilliance in Bed
Quick, quick
A blood-red sunset greets me
In the mirrors of the night

I am looking
For a particular
Kind of voice

Scent of rose
Blush on the cheeks

Just short of Einstein’s

The ability to leap
Tall buildings
With a single bound

A voice with thrills
Like Pavarotti’s

Ups and downs
At will

Songs that are deep
Very deep

A heart expanded
Shaped by
Saw and shrapnel
Mounds of feathery kisses

A whole family
That dances

Brilliance in bed
A ready joke
During massacres

Like a puma’s

Quick quick
The setting sun
May rise again

you have
the faintest idea

the fastest

the best flamenco

dancers are fat
old women the best

singers are toothless
old men

and because I love

I will slaughter

read ten
japanese novels

discover that darkness is
center city

brightness a thousand
white pilgrims

waterlilies grow
in a pond

of diamonds from which
you irradiate me

in hard cold-
hearted surprise

when I start to

there will be
no refuge

so that my heart will beat
erratic memories like rows

of fig trees

spreading unevenly

like your hair
wild hair

there is a tension in my joints
on streetcorners i often turn the wrong way
in the evening i look for an evening star
in the morning the delicate bones in my ears vibrate
in the shower my lover washes clean white-yellow sand
from my tangled hair
avoiding my neck with her white hands

second pas de deux
on the beach we
walk through your black-brown hair the sun sets
sets you
turn your left shoulder against my left arm to the south
south a slow motion pirouette
veins thin as martian canals you turn your eyes
to the back of my wrists
to the nape of my knotty neck and dance across the ocean en pointe