Issue 156, Fall 2000
Such pleasure one needs to make for oneself—.
She has snipped the paltry forsythia
to force the bloom, has cut each stem on the
slant and sprinkled brown sugar in a vase,
so the wintered reeds will take their water.
It hurts her to do this but she does it.
When are we most ourselves, and when the least?
Last night, the man in the recessed doorway,
homeless or searching for something, or sought—
all he needed was one hand and quiet.
The city around him was one small room.
He leaned into the dark portal, a
shadow of himself, gray shade in a door.
His eyes were closed, his rhythm became him,
as we have shut our eyes, as dead or as
other, and held the thought of another
whose pleasure is need, face over a face.