What Does Autumn Go On

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair.

The Typewriter Separated Me From A Deeper Intimacy With Poetry, And My Hand Brought Me Closer To That Intimacy Again.

When Everything Seems To Be Set To Show Me Off As Intelligent, The Fool I Always Keep Hidden Takes Over All That I Say.

Maybe Nothingness Is To Be Without Your Presence, Without You Moving, Slicing The Noon Like A Blue Flower, Without You Walking Later Through The Fog And The Cobbles, Without The Light You Carry In Your Hand, Golden, Which Maybe Others Will Not See, Which Maybe No One Knew Was Growing Like The Red Beginnings Of A Rose. In Short, Without Your Presence: Without Your Coming Suddenly, Incitingly, To Know My Life, Gust Of A Rosebush, Wheat Of Wind: Since Then I Am Because You Are, Since Then You Are, I Am, We Are, And Through Love I Will Be, You Will Be, We Will Be.

I Should Like To Sleep Like A Cat, With All The Fur Of Time, With A Tongue Rough As Flint, With The Dry Sex Of Fire; And After Speaking To No One, Stretch Myself Over The World, Over Roofs And Landscapes, With A Passionate Desire To Hunt The Rats In My Dreams.