This cliff-side is true and ruthless and dependable —
What all the pundits say is right: you can dabble
With love, you can plead, but the bitter, etc., isn't lucrative.
The bitter, etc., is borrowed, marriageable. And the waves
Don't sound any more mournful than a woman —
Besides all the perfumed armies are so grumpy and wan
And blotto you'd think they couldn't keep up with their Sophocles
Even at a snail's pace — such dense, ancient sadness.
Yes, faith must be called to, fat with spray and misery,
Though nothing there is crumbling. Sure, I can channel the calm sea
So that the moon is my darling, my orbit, my omphalo —
And yet it's nothing to get rattled by. Try humming at a window.
Such is this children's game, such is this mother's tongue.
Who says my girdle's too tight? My heart is flung.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 189 no. 1, October 2006, used with permission.