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Calme-toi,
ma biche, ma biche.
Be still,
my doe.

Resign.
That’s all you have to do:
lie back; endure.

The blood –
don’t let it frighten you.
There is no need.

That’s right:
your blood knows how to flow
and how to stop.

The sick --
yes, sometimes we reject.
But that will pass.

The tears –
you feel them shatter. But
you are still whole.

Calme-toi,
ma biche, ma biche.
Be still,
my doe.

Roel

So, this is how
the morning light explodes:
there is no color
like that light
when it glances
on your forearm
as you wake.

Girl at the Head of the Stairs

Sun through the stair window.
The girl’s long hair --
not brown,
not red,
a young color.

Blue jeans;
a scoop-necked top,
dark rose;
face raised to the beams;
a flawless throat.

He looks at her, enjoys.
She notices.
But that is all:
they are both
satisfied.

Kitten and Branches

Kitten upset the
pussywillow. Frightened: first
the crash, then scolding.

A Little After Sappho

Yes!

Yes, beloved, come to me,
and stay beside me here.
Listen to me chatter,
listen to me peal.

Only let me lean to you
and hear you talk to me:

on a blanket, shadow-hatched;
at the table, near and glad;
by the river, willow-pied;
on the pillow, just awake --

brush your hands across my hair
and let me lean to you.

Only let me sit with you
and hear you read to me:

in the twilight, opal-dim;
through the rainfall, low and grey;
with the daylight’s quickening;
when the sun is slanting gold --

brush your hands across my face
and let me sit with you.

Only let me look at you
and hear you play to me:

let me see you arch and stretch;
let me watch you tap and pluck;
let me know the ordered chords;
let me feel them, keen and sweet --

only let me stay with you,
and you shall hear me peal.

Found

Now let the fish-hawks call in pairs
from the sandbars in the stream.

And let us take the painted boat
through the cresses on the lake.

And let us track the silver sun
on the ripples, on the waves.

And let us have the bell and drum --
ringing bell and beating drum --

With bells and drums let us rejoice;
with bells and drums let us be glad.

The Well is Deep in Thistle

The well is deep in thistle;
It clumps and crowds the stones.
The tufts are incense-purple,
The leaves are green as brine.
So dense and thick it grows here,
The stones cannot be seen.
However could you see them?
The thistle is too full.

Sir: tell me when the riddles
Began to fret the edge --
I saw them rip the core, Sir;
I saw that day with you.
Since you, Sir, would not keep me,
You ought to tell me this.
Sir, bend your head and tell me:
Acknowledge what you owe.

The well is deep in bracken;
It rustles on the stones.
The fronds are sere and whirring;
They rattle in the air.
Just try to drop a stone in:
You cannot hear a splash.
However could you hear it?
The soughing is so loud.

My Mother! Tell me, show me!
You heard the fringes tear.
Remind me how they sounded;
Unfold the things you know.
If only I could reckon,
How easy I would be!
But till the threads unravel
Who understands the fray?

The well is deep in bramble;
It snakes across the stones.
The spines are harsh and jagged,
As long as crickets’ wings.
So thick the bramble grows here,
You cannot walk this way.
However could you walk here?
The thorns are far too sharp.

My Father! Tell me, show me!
You saw it sailing near.
Point out the spotted sky-line;
Another time I’ll know.
Then, Father, give me comfort,
For just a little space.
It isn’t that I’m daunted --
But who could fail to balk?

The well is deep in thistle;
It clumps and crowds the stones.
And you, Sir, far away now,
Are you not thick with shame?