I wish your care for me were as unstopped
As this, your taste in movies seems to be,
Though Harold Lloyd forever on the clock
Asks of you only sometimes to be seen.
It’s funny when the salt builds on my lens,
Diffusion filters everything I see
And makes the light so eloquently bent
Like Haskell Wexler in the seventies.
If you saw through these eyes you might again
Take up the cause, pick up the work and call
Me back — rewrite, reshoot the picture’s end.
But maybe there’s no writing it at all:
You’ll look across the fence at where you’ve been
And find my love is Technicolor green.
Some stuff went down this weekend and it’s going to be moony around here for a while. I hope that is okay.
Airport security was so polite,
But I suppose they see that all the time —
A red-eyed woman, a departing flight,
A license photo hard to recognize —
And I kept my composure ’til the gate,
Remained discreet, economy 4A,
But cried in earnest on the Interstate
Because a song belonging to you played.
Today, the same, but know that what is gone
Was not left on the M60 or plane,
But in Virginia, a James Taylor song,
And my head on your chest for the refrain.
We’re driving there forever; out of tune,
You’re singing “Something in the Way She Moves.”
Not winter, far too silver and serene,
Say nothing of long nights and bitter frost,
For ours, a love so vigorous and green,
And autumn, arid autumn is a loss,
When death, however golden, claims all trees,
Sends man and beast both doddering off to sleep,
Wild springtime fares no better, quick to please,
But runs too glib and callow to run deep.
Who would attempt love in that which can’t last?
By this same token, summer moves too slow,
Its heat suppressing what would flow as fast
As blood that quickens, slicks and starts to grow.
And thus a love that would all time transcend
Can’t seem to find a season to begin.
I wonder how this dress should seem to you,
Appearing on your stairwell after three,
With what is called a `good bag and cheap shoes`:
The corseted agenda that was me,
To let the blood completely, and to learn
If it would kill the patient, or revive
What I suspect existed, for a turn,
But trusted not indulgence to describe.
By Wong Kar Wai, and you, I am informed
That love is not a stationary thing,
But only luck and timing. Mine are poor,
And writing is a lover’s luxury.
So I proceed, declined but satisfied,
To button up my coat and say goodnight