Heart of the Night
It seems I cannot go back to the
beautiful perfection I was
just a while ago. The urgent necessity
of my under making has me naked
on the floor. Of my own marriage,
I want to imagine its limits
not yet born. I crawl on the ground
in a dream of romance beyond.
A literary territory of shared
perceptions where depth is fire.
A place where just the man
and woman live. Meanwhile, passion
goes on else where in private
wonder or fantastic observation.
Sexuality is walking along the lonely
waterfront, with life winding down.
Dear wife, she seeks to understand
the act above her, his rise
or decline and the mysticism of his
western pattern. If just once her blood
would rise upon the sound of my voice.
Her gracious loyalty and evasive
evenness disturbed. If we could lie
down in the dirt.
Now the stars are out. And maybe
I am more alive than I was
yesterday. Consciousness is precious.
I need all the truth of my feelings
to make this music. Love is possibly
the nearness we make in silence,
or my desire for her, which keeps
coming back. I part the curtain to
let the moon in before I sleep,
and though Yuko is absent,
she stays with me. I do not wish
so much these days for that train
that used to come through, with
its rumbling cabins of challenge
and chance destinations. Destiny
it seems has placed its gentle
bare foot upon my lips. Perhaps
everything sacred is already here.
Barry Tagrin
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