Sunday, April 18, 2010
Letter to a Vague You
Give me an inch & I'll take the reflection of your hands like memory to the marrow. Paint with that for a month of night. When the hymnal begins I'll be cupping a flame to a mouth just risen from the edge of sleep. What I mean is, woman, how'd you get so beauty-torn. The alphabet arranges in your veins like a vine hell-bent on the sun. You speak to the thief in me; my dreams turn to box-cars & blues, a fistful of dirt, your air.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
Brilliant, as always.
You amaze me. I admire you.
Robby, you're the sweetest! How are your poems going?
You would be hard pressed to convince me that anything more beautiful than this exists.
Yes.
Oh man, the poems.
I love the things I've been writing.
I hate the things I've been writing.
I cross out whole stanzas and rip up whole poems and fall in love with one line or one word and hate the rest.
There is one poem I wrote, though, that I really love. I'll put something together and mail it to you.
I saw Nox, the Anne Carson book you were writing about the other week, in a bookstore in Harvard Square, and I was thinking about how great you've been to me.
So, as always, thank you. I'm much more grateful than I can begin to explain.
Post a Comment