My Great Sensitivity

 

 

I'm mucked now for sure. No one's going to discover my difficult poems

in a locked away desk drawer somewhere after the dying fact. I remember how it feels

to be knocked out by someone standing next to me in a

simple white dress. This isn't anything you can do anything

 

about, not in this lifetime. You can always pretend to be in love

because you're bored or it's the next dot to connect, but the

real thing is like a huge magnet that works only on your entire center, it captures 

 

all the moments in your life, every minute that's any good. Here let me put

it another way for you—you can't be glad to be alive

without sharing that feeling in the presence of the

one you want to want. Sharing's the happy result. It comes

 

and you can't stop it, you need to feel it all the way home

again to the end of all endings--that is forever. But back onto the poetry thing. I  now

realize that I've been speaking directly to Children to come, 

who'll pick up on the hum inside these words like nothing else.

 

They'll make good sense of it, know how to use it without being

told a fucking fairy tale. They'll use it to construct their own new

mythologies. To make it rain. Walk over to the moon on balloons for shoes.

To bring all poems roaring back to life. To eat the dripping fruit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Go Tell the Ghost

 

in the little yellow

rain coat to knock

it off. You might

not be heard tonight,

but you will be

seen. I promise you that.

Or  don't. Each adventure

comes with its own particular

doors and windows. That's

the nature of any

man-eating flower, and

when it comes down

to it, they all

are, this doesn't stop

anything from happening, but

maybe that's my point--

you'll still welcome dreams

in you, I'll still

write you many poem-infused postcards.