Seem Tame

Falls blue. Time, it is that small

silver weight in my hand, cool

as a pebble damp grass smoothes— 



now quiet the rustling, crossing

of legs, coy bangles clattering

like little bells of tin, long minute



spent smoothing my wrinkled brocade

as the strum starts under the song—

I’ve gone up this path five times



and gone down four, hear me out—

when you rise in the last morning,

in the shrinking hour thick



with smoke of yeast and sugar,

think of me. Not my face—

overcast with leafed lanterns swaying, 



forest above town greener

as just before rain and just after,

until out of each paper sphere a bird



breaks, flocks, and all life looks up,

taut like drum-skin

a handful of earth clatters onto, 



specks into eyes turning down

sloping back into the city—

that crust I can hook out



in the mornings, first thing,

small seeds hard as seconds

between my fingers . . . 



And what has been within me

is true, just as I wanted.

Wanted a field of dissent settling



as roan ridden into slow grass,

mottle-coat of lustring

and the throat-cut string still vibrating—



wanted unsteady. Wanted fall,

but it was winter before we reached

the middle. Wanted the pearly hum of



beginning set into a silver bezel,

wanted to be thought mastered, thought

wanted, pendular, yours. For a moment.