You see the second time that I forgot

One of the poems that I forgot to write

They came back in patches, terse verse patches,

Occupied the same row in my brain as names and dates

The writer wrote of the slope that welcomes fig trees

There is no news in the Western Devish Times.

This slender woman is too valuable for words

To name her a little sky and a few stars and a plain greeting will suffice

 Love is in the palm of her hand.

And zest and vigor allowed this man to worship

All the beauty made flesh

Men bowed down to women

And we washed the feet of beauty made fresh;

So, where there is no river, water flowed

It pours out everywhere

in the middle ear

Like the celebratory song

of a thrush held behind glass

As we open the window, wide.