You are beautiful as you are
because you do not know that you are beautiful.
For the gifts offered in ignorance
are the ones that sustain us.
Take this rain through which we drunkenly dance:
what does it know of us, or of a busker’s drunken tune?
But still it drenches us gently,
glittering in the dusk and streetlights.
And if it stopped
what would we have to dance through,
to touch or take a chance to?
Take this singer howling for coins:
what do his stumbling fingers know
when they fill the square with sound
of our sweet fear
as we dance round and round
the edge of something new?
But still they slide and fumble
and anger the frets to noise.
Take these things: ‘streetlights,’ ‘guitar’ and ‘rain’;
what do they know of the names we have for them
or that we name them at all?
But still they offer themselves day after day for the naming
and make the poem possible
and enter it gently, uncertainly,
just like your life enters mine.
You are a little like the sun.
What does it know of heat, or distance,
or those of us, addicted to light, who depend on it?
Take this rain, take this singer,
take these things we have done and not done.
You are a little like the sun with your ignorant beauty,
that burns for me maybe
or maybe just for everyone.