Diplomystus


I come, everyday, to this garden
where the stones sing ancient biographies
and clinging vines grapple
with desirous flower trees.
I always find, in the pond,
one pale fish, turning endlessly
in the murky water of words.
I always hear the wind of your vowels
poured over straight bourbon
and blown through too many Salems.
The sound of your swimming
back and forth calms me.
You have come before me
and hacked a path throught the tangle
and purchased the map
by which I am to travel.
I cannot shut windows against the sirens,
cannot recusitate and hold you,
cannot ask you to be more alive
than the recorded message you have left me,

so I count the syllables
and meter the lines of my own demons
and dip my fingers in the water
to touch you.

for Anne Sexton, circa 1993