strings and lamp oil

[heartichoke]

the other night i cried
to find myself with everything
that had come before
blooming so insistently
within me

i am often so immediate, so now-then
that i forget to record, and i wonder
if it matters? do i contribute none
the-less? am i understood, are we
all creating this together, nothing
left out?

but what i really meant to say...

is last night i dreamed
we were tango dancing, and
learning the steps
i recall especially your hands
but i just made that up
dreamed it, just now
or a little while ago, on the couch
not last night. would you forgive
that delusion?

i worry sometimes
that i dream of spelling errors and
confrontations, instead of
symphonies and unfettered nonsense
flying over verdant valleys
hiking in folded picnics
hold me, i said
and you did

is it allright
that my art is erratic and
indiscriminate/determinate?
(at the moment)
perhaps i shall explain
i find such richness in it all
am i criticized to sing standards
instead of my own material?
but it is everywhere, i say -
my material.

i think so, too, that
thought you just had. yes
that one. i fought back tears
on the way to the mailbox
after you left, thinking of
how much i love you
both.

why do i return to this
play again and again? a different role
each time, a different perspective
in this tragedy. (this is not
a metaphor. not the kind
you think.) and why can't i
play the flute? i'd really like to
play the flute.