we will have words

there’s no room in my life

for new men; because the old


ones keep creeping in.

at night, they get the lay


of the land. still, after all

this time—they inhabit the


dreams of both body and

mind. every now and then


a new man will arrive on

the scene: in real life.


a good man. a man who

makes me feel alive.


we will have words;

so help me god.


we will have a new life,

a new touch, a clean rain.


and i will be reminded:

you are not your pain.


worse for the wear

this is the poem i don’t want to write.

this is the poem that is not beautiful.


or maybe it is,

because it is true.


the truth is,

i wish she were worse for you.


the truth is,

i wish she would just disappear.


i wish she were not so much like me.

it would be easier to hate her.


for both

of us.


the truth is,

she is good for you.


the truth is,

she is better for you


than i

would be.


i try to woo you with

my words, mystery,





but the truth is,

i’ve never had a healthy



it feeds the


poetry, but not

the living.


the truth is,

if she disappeared


tomorrow, i would not

know what to do.


i would probably

cry for you.


and then

for me.


i am the one who

should disappear.


i am the one who

is worse for the wear.






summer of the painting

i want to live in a

light house.





these wrinkles

and lines need


something to open

and close


with a light



you have the



you are starting

to believe it.


you are starting to

love your self





a solitary wing

with its lantern


pair flapping in the



a flickering




the seasons;


a window;

a wind—


to speak through

and in and on


and on

and anon.


Song of the Wayland, Anselm Kiefer