A Joy To Be Simple
A sensible man, you say, whose prick writes prose,
would never fall in love with such a woman.
But I am not sensible and my brick is a monk
doing sweet penance in the scriptorium, tracing
over and over with monocular concentration
swooping curlicues of delight over the stern
appointed line of Holy Scripture. I have already
scraped the palimpsest with reverent care, using
mostly the tongue of the blade—That other man,
his word on you, cold science on lucent vellum
was heresy. I lay on gold leaf, puffs of breath
on your parted lips, while you melt my kisses
in your mouth like chocolates.
A sensible woman, you say, does not paint
with her bush, does not dip her brush
in the rich pigments of these oils, the ooze
of color crushed out of broken commandments
by our loving. I see Grandma Moses lost
in the desert of O’Keefe pastels. This is not
a pale orchid. There is still blood
in this grisly rose—Spoon it up,
and dance accordingly. Thou-shalt-not
cuts the rug with St. Anthony’s demon,
spin your partner and doe-see-doe.
Insensible beauty, usage is truth, and truth usage.
Like an antique Singer sewing machine,
with a beautiful Victorian motion
our single piston hammer stitches the quilt;
a harlequin of scraps spilled
and gathered at the bee. Will we spell out
some homely motto, or follow the logic
of some intricate pattern, or can we hope
to come to the end simple and genuine
and elegant as a Shaker chair?
