If you cannot, then you must
slip off the rim of your stout blue cup,
run quicksilver on what can only be called toils,
the twin toils of posture and tired gates,
rustbound to a hinge – slim passage –
the way mice flatten and slip into a cupboard,
chew your rice, your wire, and every fiber
of what was pantried, constant and everwhite.
And if you cannot, then you must
sieve every drop of rain,
Drop of rain,
as each the never pure
holds a grain of black angry
that even a thousand suns, so risen
at once to dispel the wet masks of us,
the one black word remains – hard crystalled
and gantried for lightning.
But love runs like loose dogs, dry leaves,
old snow, and all the burrowing moles know
the musk of mildew and worm, roots,
the clenched snaps, blunt traps,
and the sudden spikes of vengeance.
And if you cannot go further
than the rim of your own myth,
if you cannot dull your rodent teeth,
taste your love copper, stand blind
and teeter over the edge of you,
then you must, yes, I must –
We must –
slip into the black folds of curtains
or new turned earth, to be
either smothered or fresh verdant.