virtue or beauty (she reads in class as if nothing else matters)

virtue or beauty (she reads in class as if nothing else matters)

She's suddenly beautiful
We all want something beautiful
I wish I was beautiful

“Mr. Jones,” Counting Crows

his life ended & began again

at the exact same moment

in class one day the teacher asked:

would you rather be virtuous or beautiful?

he found it hard to concentrate

as his classmates answered & argued

mostly about the importance of virtue

& the superficiality of beauty

the way young people will

no ideas quite yet their own

as he found it hard to concentrate most days

because his eyes & mind always drifted to her

then she spoke certain & clear

her eyes never leaving her fingernails

as she rubbed lotion into cuticles at the edge of black polish

her hands just above the novel fanned opened on her desk:

i want to be beautiful

the kind of beautiful that makes people rethink beautiful

the kind of beautiful that inspires people to be virtuous

[she paused]

like a painting or a novel or a poem or a song

that kind of beautiful

& she was to him

& she had for him

& he wanted then with all his heart to be that for her

knowing

knowing

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

“[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in],” e. e. cummings

alone she sat in the passenger seat of the car

windows up and talking on her cell phone

to the one she loved with all her heart

she was glad to tears to hear his voice

she was sad to tears not to be against the curve of him

and she tried to send the aching of her heart

through the voice she also fought to hide the trembling

he (the one she loved with all her heart) was busy

on the other side of the phone miles and miles away

and his voice was all distraction and rush

everything except the longing she wanted to share

so she sat alone on the cell phone crying

silently behind the windows of a car for anyone to see

•

he walked out of the restaurant and saw her in the car

he did not know her

he did not know the other side of her phone call

he did not know why she was crying

he did not know what she was saying

but he knew that she was beautiful in her sadness

wordless to him a total stranger except for the shared longing

he knew somehow what was beneath the tears

and behind the windows of a car he did not know

and in that moment of knowing

he wanted to tap the window gently

meet her eyes briefly and clearly

before opening the door and leaning

close enough to slip his hand behind her neck

close enough to bring his face to hers

and kiss gently the tears across her face

and he also knew that this sudden need

to show this stranger he understood

stood pale and distant behind his longing

to run at that very moment until he reached

the one he loved now distant and lost to him

and say to her with his hand warm on hers

i know

i have always known before i knew you

i will always know

this quest for sweetness

this quest for sweetness


i have set aside

crystalline sugar

for the golden lacing

of honey drizzled

but this quest for sweetness

can never bear the fruit

of my lips lost once again

in your field of sugar cane

in case you ever wonder

in case you ever wonder


i don’t use

the weather App

on my smartphone

the way most people do

hourly or 7Day forecasts

simply do not matter to me

i check Now

and hope for you

because i long always

for only you now

a few words about being wrong & after the monsoon (holding on pt. 2)

a few words about being wrong & after the monsoon (holding on pt. 2)

“I can't take my eyes off of you”

“The Blower’s Daughter,” Damien Rice

all the times we were too tired

all the times we were in a hurry

we were wrong

•

i bought you a book today

a book i have read & loved

& never given to anyone else

i have no hope of ever handing

this other world to you face to face

or at all in this time after the monsoon

•

the flood waters battered everything

but when the waters finally receded

there on the beach he lay alone & dazed

holding on to the book he chose for her

holding on (our zen odyssey)

holding on (our zen odyssey)

 I tried so hard to leave you behind me but I am more faithful than I intended to be…. Anything that will blow your candles out. For nowadays the world is lit by lightning. Blow out your candles Laura.

The Glass Menagerie, Tennessee Williams

But tell me now where was my fault,
in loving you with my whole heart?

“White Blank Page,” Mumford and Sons

we are driving down the interstate

alone in the car

this is something rare for us

we are momentarily quiet together

monolithic

this is something exceedingly rare for us

we are close because the car is small

i reach for you, slipping my hand

under the hem of your pants leg

and then into the top of your sock

holding on to your ankle as we drive

•

hey, i wave to you now across

an expanse of time and space and decisions

free-floating, a disengaged astronaut

hey, i shout into this vacuum

just to say that i have not let go, i cannot

i am, i am always holding on

•

my world is a Stanley Kubrick film

an Arthur C. Clarke novel

i have no bonsai tree

or meticulous zen garden

but i have this impression

in the palm of my hand

your wonder-filled ankle

solid as a Buddha statue

•

the music fades

the camera pulls back

until i am so small

you cannot see the tears

the book clutched to my chest

[like an ankle or tiny monolith]

the song on repeat in my mind

and then

everything appears to stop

except my heart

you (i do not think)

you (i do not think)


i do not think

i do not think of you

i do not think of you as other people

i do not think of you as other people do

i do not think of you as other people do including you

•

maybe you

could not see

in my eyes

the you i love

who you have been

who you are

who you are becoming

who you are without me

•

i imagine you

imagining yourself

disembodied to witness

the world of me

you chose to set aside

for you without me

you see the books

i am collecting for you

as if i could matter still

a biography of Vonnegut

signed by the author

the colorful boxed paperbacks

of Murakami’s 1Q84

the book of your father’s

i was unable to return

i am a solitary librarian

i collect i catalog i preserve

with the faith of a shaman

i write poems
like birthday presents

because

i do not think of you as other people do including you