The Plum Flower Dance: Poems 1985 to 2005

The Poet Reclining

12 the Poet reclininG I can never convnce my father that my best work s done n naps, n the greenest of grass, near the smell of manure, n the song of neghng and snortng, n the nfinte musc that fills the word wth brght meanng. After I am half out of lfe, I can have dscourse wth the trees, wth each leaf that tckles tself, and flrts wth the branch, sendng me the secrets of a woman, of the dstngushng flurry of her smle. In ths grass I always dream that f I stay a lttle longer I wll leave ths skn, skull, heart, bran, femur, and blood, and melt nto the sol and multply lke the nfinte beads of ths planet, becomng the thng I spend my lfe sngng to. But I cannot convnce my father, who uses manure, tearfully, for flowers, hopng to rase my mother from her berth n the earth. ...