5
LITTLE SONG BOOK
It is your hand I love
Alive upon your knee
Only your naked hand
(It runs right up your neck
When we are deep in talk)
A hand with fingers stretched
And roughing up your hair
It makes you naked too
(Your fingertips will sleep
Upon my thigh tonight)
I think your hands in talk
Fashion something small
Invisible and wild
(But death can see it well
And quietly leaves the room)
I want to kiss you, love,
Under the monkey puzzle tree
Where no one ever goes
(The branches hardly move an inch,
Light bows to enter there)
But itās a puzzle, love,
To get you to that sleepy tree
When you just want to read
(I run a finger down your thigh,
My shadow blacks your page)
How cool it is there, love,
Under the monkey puzzle tree,
How good to taste its seed
(I feel the fine bones in your hand
While walking over there)
At night the only words I want to say
Are those already tempered by our love:
Bold words that venture high upon my tongue
When it is somewhere lost inside your mouth
Words that I whisper deep between your thighs
Words flying fast into wet darkness there
Fine words all shining through the palest breath
When Iāve lived twice or thrice within your kiss
Small words that blossom only close to hush
Or leap out through the dark in sudden cries
Old words that go to bed with us each night
Young words that taste of morning light and you
We love those liquid August days so much:
They cling like cotton shirts all limp with sweat.
September comes, and then we miss their touch.
We miss the fleshy thunderstormās vague threat,
Thin girls who taste of Beaujolais at night:
They cling like cotton shirts all limp with sweat,
Though morning sees them gone, as well it might.
Summer restrings our days and plays them slow
With girls who taste of Beaujolais at night,
Who whisper thickly that they love you so,
Like Blues sung soft and sweet out in the dark.
Summer restrings our days and plays them slow
On yellow afternoons lost in a park . . .
I knew a girl whose very smile was wine,
Was Blues sung soft and sweet out in the dark;
She left one day without a single line.
We love those liquid August days so much:
They give us girls whose very smiles are wine.
September comes, and then we miss their touch.
So Sorrow bums his way right into town,
So Sorrow comes our way with rusty crown;
Itās down oh down, my dear, itās always down.
Heās got our faces fixed in his blank look,
Heās got our names clean written in his book,
Heās got our Queen, our Knight, heās got our Rook.
You said you loved me, and you told a lie,
But, girlfrie...