Sour Grapes / A Book of Poems

JANUARY
Again I reply to the triple winds

running chromatic fifths of derision

outside my window:

You will not succeed. I am

bound more to my sentences

the more you batter at me

to follow you.

as before, fingers perfectly

its derisive music.

We are alone in this terror, alone,

face to face on this road, you and I,

wrapped by this flame!

Let the polished plows stay idle,

their gloss already on the black soil.

But that face of yours—!

Answer me. I will clutch you. I

will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face

into your face and force you to see me.

Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest

thing that is in your mind to say,

say anything. I will understand you—!

It is the madness of the birch leaves opening

cold, one by one.

unlacing them

stand out upon

flat worsted flowers

under my feet.

Nimbly the shadows

of my fingers play

unlacing

over shoes and flowers.

forks and crumbs and plates

the flowers remain composed.

Cooly their colloquy continues

above the coffee and loud talk

wife’s new pink slippers

have gay pom-poms.

There is not a spot or a stain

on their satin toes or their sides.

All night they lie together

under her bed’s edge.

Shivering I catch sight of them

and smile, in the morning.

Love has not even visited this country.

Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,

by what devious means do you contrive

to remain idle? Teach me, O master.

the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold.

You will not succeed. I am

bound more to my sentences

the more you batter at me

to follow you.

who am I...?

And amazed my heart leaps

at the thought of love

vast and grey

yearning silently over me.