In your think tank you’re Olympia,
all languid length and skin and two red roses
budding in the suds; or you’re unhappy, a
sea fury frozen in your fountain poses.
And then a fine rime settles on the water,
hides you almost, Susannah, soaped to gleaming,
but wise from birth to what the elders taught her,
that though the tongue be stone the spirit’s scheming
heat and action, craves to be
swimming with you into infinity —
as on those evenings when I hear you run
your bath and put your hair up in a bun
and sigh, and sink into your second home,
and then you call me from the other room.

—Jonathan Galassi


Published in: on February 9, 2010 at 1:00 AM  Leave a Comment  
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