The Last Line

Sepulveda Boulevard

Twist the heart of the myrrh tree, and it weeps incense.

The myrrh itself, tears of trees. Like the mottled light

Of the myrtle planted in the concrete, you think East.

It’s Sepulveda, and it’s noon, and the afternoon will come

Like the drab metallic blur of cars, perceived

Only just, only barely. I am here, but I think of myrrh

And hope for an opening I can use, a way of understanding

The man with the cigarette, the woman on her cell,

The barista. It’s a route, a way out I seek in the image,

A blessing in the moving shadows on my face.

 

The Poet Stands in the Land of Tears

C'est tellement mysterieux, le pays des larmes.

--Antoine de Saint-Exupery 

The hills that roll in front of the mountains

Are full of wild roses, with a scent you know

From when roses shook with scent. When

The sweetness loses its shock, you oblivious

To its intensity, you hear the call of birds, strange

Voices—such voices familiar from somewhere—

And they turn from you when you seek them

In the trees, each of the three with a different song

And plumage, and are gone. Then you see

The leaves shake so in the air, shaking off the wind,

Neither cold nor warm, and the leaves that shake

Know nothing of you. The heat where there is

No heat but the blood, it enfolds you and you fall

Into it, want no way out, want only to stand

And know more of what you know too much of:

Twist the heart of the myrrh tree, and it weeps incense.