Tell me something

We are just like the moon.
The moon has her day,
and you have yours.

One day the moon is old,
and the next day it is young
and full of life.

the wax and wane and wainscot of the moon
(the man in the moon doesn’t exist)

White lace between her feet
molten silver in her hands
like shell, like bones.

One day you are young,
and the next day you are old
and full of life.

One day I am here,
and the next day I am there.

I am just like the moon
I am just like the sun
I am just like the sea
I am just like the wind
I am just like the rain
I am just like the mirror
I am just like the flower
I am just like the stream
I am just like the river
I am just like the mountain
I am just like the berry, sweet and bitter at once

The sun has its day,
and the seasons each their turn,
and then each day has its night.

And look here, my dear – we are like the moon
and the sun, for this ghostly sometime,
even the seasons turn on.

So it is in this strange time:
one day I am young and strong,
and the next day I am old and weak;
one day I am dead,
and the next day I am alive.

I am just like the seasons
I am just like the months
I am just like the years
I am just like the sun
I am just like the moon
I am just like the sea
I am just like the wind
I am just like the rain
I am just like the mirror
I am just like the flower
I am just like the stream
I am just like the river

One day it is summer,
and the next day it is winter—
and the years have their own music

One day we are here,
and the next


This neighborhood was mine first. I walked each block twice:
drunk, then sober. I lived every day with legs and headphones.
It had snowed the night I ran down Lorimer and swore I’d stop
at nothing. My love, he had died. What was I supposed to do?
I regret nothing. Sometimes I feel washed up as paper. You’re
three years away. But then I dance down Graham and
the trees are the color of champagne and I remember—
There are things I like about heartbreak, too, how it needs
a good soundtrack. The way I catch a man’s gaze on the L
and don’t look away first. Losing something is just revising it.
After this love there will be more love. My body rising from a nest
of sheets to pick up a stranger’s MetroCard. I regret nothing.
Not the bar across the street from my apartment; I was still late.
Not the shared bathroom in Barcelona, not the red-eyes, not
the songs about black coats and Omaha. I lie about everything
but not this. You were every streetlamp that winter. You held
the crown of my head and for once I won’t show you what
I’ve made. I regret nothing. Your mother and your Maine.
Your wet hair in my lap after that first shower. The clinic
and how I cried for a week afterwards. How we never chose
the language we spoke. You wrote me a single poem and in it
you were the dog and I the fire. Remember the courthouse?
The anniversary song. Those goddamn Kmart towels. I loved them,
when did we throw them away? Tomorrow I’ll write down
everything we’ve done to each other and fill the bathtub
with water. I’ll burn each piece of paper down to silt.
And if it doesn’t work, I’ll do it again. And again and again and—

i sing of Olaf glad and big – e.e. cummings

i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but–though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments–
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
“I will not kiss your fucking flag”

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but–though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation’s blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat–
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
“there is some shit I will not eat”

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.