Nobody believes in love-
not even me.
Love is the thing
you wait
to end.
Love is the thing
that will not,
cannot work.
Love is the thing
they warn you of-
the dire parents,
the friends
with their dead
marriages,
their crushed hopes.
Nothing crushes hope
but the will to make
the heart
like rock.
That will is strong.
The rock-heart stands
when the love songs crumble,
their yellowing sheet music
kept in a drawer,
their sweet hugs & tugs
forgotten,
like the merest air
of an old New England
spring.
Spring comes again
& again,
& the rock-hearts
feel the sap rising
thinking it is s**,
thinking the glands alone
cause this tumult
to the innards,
this hidden spring,
this secret river
which is hope.
Let them put it down
to s**!
Let them say
we worship Dionysus,
Bacchus, Pan,
but not the proper
gods.
Let them have
the proper gods-
Jahweh
with his heart like rock,
Christ with his blood
& thorns,
Mammon with his stock certificates,
his rates, his rates,
his bull markets,
& his late rallies.
We are rallying
alone.
We spit our love
into the wind.
Nobody can bear
to watch
our love.
Except the muse
who smiles
& sends
these
poems.