Liebfraumilch
Our new son, fallen asleep
at your full breast, smiles in his bliss.
How I want to follow him
to that place of thoughtless dark.
I bow down and taste your sweet milk,
but I merely grow aroused.
Scale
A table seems to grow small
as we move away from it.
The object—table, tree, or house—
outside the mind remains unchanged.
I saw God, in his wee immensity, looking
through my late eyes, not with them.
Season
In autumn, the fallen leaf
says that you, too, will fall and die.
It’s easy to accept this
when you’re in bed, with a fever.
But later, when your fever breaks,
you say, Wait! Spring is coming.
