SUMMER VACATION

In dreams I go back

The fence posts peeling in my hands

hollyhocks with their spired yarns.

Lamplight. A scrawny cousin calls us in

free. I do not run.

The cedared doves ask

how much how much how much

They are fat with dark, with cherries

Moths beat out their lives

against the screen

Inside our aunts play gin

& Brahms & you

push back your skim milk hair

to read aloud

from books of maps & tourist lures:

o welcome to the heart

this old poem of mine was published long, long ago by George Hitchcock in kayak

IF THIS WORLD WERE THE BOOK

When I came back from the far country

your gold beneath my tongue, yes

I fell again to loving

all the first things. I saw

through my half open door

the white lilacs glowing, entire

tangled constellations of lovers

clustered on each branch, and

through the windows of your body

my dear hell or that lost map

to heaven. I surrender, my life.

Stay me here with plain words.

If this world were the book

I have been reading

over & over I was only

looking for that turned & returned

story: lovers, gold, the simple rain

my body the page you print yourself upon