If there were words as pure as you, Love,
Your simple goodnesses would never be enough,
For we could name them all:
We could call them names like “dog” or “John;”
We would not stop to try to write of you,
To talk to you, to seek you out
For the ineffable qualities that you are, Love.
Or if, perhaps, some word was
That scorned me with its truth of my depravity,
Would I seek for more morality?
Would I try to overcome those syllables?
Or, would I with those Indian untouchables,
Accept my arbitrary untouchableness?
For what f my ugliness was called a scavenger
And your purity and goodness called a sparrow?—
Would I not, with ugly eyes and a good heart,
Look at the sky and see them both, twins flying,
Both specks not to be distinguished?
Would I not stand amazed as they,
So far from my eyes and heart,
Flew far above me, and might I say in gasps and murmurs—
“My, how far they fly, how far!”
And then, returning home to shade from the sky,
Eat my food, feed my dog,
And greet John each morning with my “Hulloos”
And fall asleep each night
In bed, near stars, by darkness lying?
10 April 2008