Maybe a poem would fly from my mouth
if I could remember the words
of a day in the summer when we kissed
beside a frog-filled pond
with the willow tree bowing and
the sun spinning like the wheel of Fatima.
Or if I understood what dogs are saying
when they hail me as I cruise the alleys
or knew what the cat is not-thinking when she
rolls over and languidly closes her eyes.
Maybe a poem could tumble
out of my open white shirt
as I bend down to kiss
the organ-grinder’s monkey
in the painting nobody looks at
behind the wall at the dark museum.
Or if I hold you and ignore our scaling flesh
if I hear how our two spirits whisper
then a few words, spare but sensual,
might linger on my tongue.
Until then I peer around the stove’s corner
searching half-amusedly for an unknown purpose
and I’m waiting for the words to come
I can feel them passing on the all night trains
or floating in the grace-filled sewers of the Lord.