Poem for September 9, 2031

AFTER you speak

And what you meant

Is plain,

My eyes

Meet yours that mean--

With your cheeks and hair--

Something more wise,

More dark,

And far different.

Even so the lark

Loves dust

And nestles in it

The minute

Before he must

Soar in lone flight

So far,

Like a black star

He seems--

A mote

Of singing dust

Afloat

Above,

That dreams

And sheds no light.

I know your lust

Is love.