You tell me we’re one,
the two of us are one,
but you keep on forgetting
I’ve got to be me
before being you.
You tell me we’re one
with your eyes soft and warm,
but you never have seen
I’ve got my own way
of being everything.
You tell we’re one.
Your words suck me in,
but you push me away
for dancing my foxtrot
while you’re trying to tango.
I tell you I’m me,
shaped with great care.
Don’t tear me down
with your mystical eyes.
I’ll find my own way.
1970
I’ll be blessed!
As I was trying
to start a poem,
a whatever words
flow
from the tip of my
pen
poem,
an ant crawled around
on my hand,
down the pen,
and off it’s tip
onto the very paper
I wanted
to fill.
Now
he’s wandering
through the . . . . .
No,
by the time I write it
he’s
some place
else.
1970, on a rooftop in Andalusia