Once, When I Last Saw Many
What to do what to do
with a banjo when I’m lazy
and the moon is not
I’m wretched and lying
like an old poem
like an open poem
I’m lying wretched and writing
Often a violet burns
inside my head often
in my lawn a tiny violet
like a fractured rhyme
and the sun on my neck
burns a hole open in my head
like the tiniest sound
gone wrong and opens
a wound
an ear
a winding
of word
and then doors
doors where my eyes and ears
doors where my mouth
and nose should be
I never regret moonlight
on the bed and a woman
her white voice and the banjo
I cannot play and the memory
of strumming her skin upon
white sheets and the white
moonlight heavy with regret
of another stupid poem
in a world too full of
stupid poems and moonlight
She might ask me from
the bed if I have a foolish heart
and I would answer
Yes I have a heart
why do you think how do you
think I could otherwise write
sweet neglectful midnight words
that you will only forget by morning
believing them but the outlines
of dreams you wouldn’t care to recall?
Why do you think I write?
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