There is a man in the old way
whose ears are stopped with European women and children
and family tragedy, though his love might speak
a thousand times the same ten words
begging for a room.

He answers her in non sequitur.

There may be only room in him
for low, lazy rivers and distant white peaks,
forests empty of humans but for monks and screens.
Only the drama of mockingbirds
cannot disturb his face.

Must sound and space be rearranged for love?

Her need is a wave with too many mouths.
There is no solid shore in him to stop what’s underneath.
She’s slid back into the deep dragging grains of him,
placed them one by one on her countless
tongues like the bodies of gods.


One Response to “Rooms”

  1. Fey says:

    A chant of the Sorrows from the Wiley Tribe.

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