Always the Solitary Will

Passion now is bloodless and unmetaphorical

All the poets know this

They tremble joyfully in their capes

They pluck guitars and go serenading and there

You stand on a porch one afternoon

When someone else’s dream

Ambles too personally close

What of it?

In a certain light your violet-blue eyes

Have a way with people and statuary

Doors mutter windows ache

But all the books grin

See them grinning?

Stupendous is a ridiculously appropriate word

For the smile you share with no one

Your left hand holds an open book of poems 

The other sprinkles tea on roses 

Who are you reading?

Shhh! you say listen

The day’s damp breath thickens

Andre Breton you say
May pass this way