On a hot sunless coach one Friday
we passed a field in which there was standing
the world’s stillest horse. This horse
was like a picture of a horse
in three dimensions; this one
was taking stillness seriously.
She had something to teach us all.
Last night I told my boyfriend
he was perfect, and I cried.
Whoever thought there was such a thing
as simple language? Only a still horse
makes stillness less complex.
Likewise a boyfriend much loved can simplify
somehow the idea of loving:
the conceptual denseness becoming at night
a close pack of white noise
and expressing itself wordless
in the small ragged o of mouth
or the full embodied trembling
which takes away thought.
We’ve let this way of love escape from language:
run away, little lovingness,
while you’re still uncorrupted by words,
light out for the territory
now and take us sleeping with you.
At night to him I will whisper
that he is the still horse,
all embodiment of being,
the o of mouth,
and also that he is a true poet
and that if I could love him
without words more truly
and take all words out of thought
I would cut out my tongue.
Crying I will whisper this and he will sleeping
place a sleep-hand over me
because he doesn’t need words to love,
being a true poet,
showing a true thing essentially wordless
and the words do not damage the thing shown:
he is true and loves in sleep also
and being loved by him, I too am asleep
asleep and silently communicating
love and feeling it languageless
an embodiment of one true feeling,
still.