In That Old House We Have Been in Love with Love
The planks have been scrubbed into white flesh, their veins bare,
We carpet the floor with quilt and we pillow on bended arms.
Rolling over, we become two praying mantises (and sexual cannibalism does enter
Our pillow talk), but we need not worry about falling down even if it is a battlefield.
The narrow window casts down dim light, its frame stark like our bodies;
Your murmurs must be about something, as if on the ceiling floats
A pair of eye-like goldfish, while my eyes fix on yours,
Something from my ganglion deeply softened, very masculine.
Outside, another time lies supine and spreads, into which we may enter to get lost.
There is a lawn we can stroll on, with a few fruit trees that stand to sieve the sun;
On a big oak, Jew’s ears cluster, brown and visually hard, like scallops of fertility
On which the genii of Venus are being born among nameless midges.
It is a post-burgeoning season, and fruits are growing fuller, yet still velvety.
Afterwards, the maturing season will be behind us.
Without our witness, what will befall the time?
Without our presence, what will befall the house?
Daylight is fading away, the colors of sky are getting crowded,
And both the east and the west are falling prone on the earth,
With only occasional bird cries cutting through the vacancy.
We are with the ongoing, the succession of night and day lying beyond our minds.
In that house, I love you, more than what has been imagined and believed,
More than what can be seen and touched,
More like love than love in words, spoken or printed….
Yet neither of us can tell what love is except that love is to be in there, and
The house must be still there, in another time, where we have been, in love with love.
Feb. -- Mar., 2008
Belle Isle, Northern Ireland