Your Beautiful Mouth
The sun is the sum of one particular age, the moon
the sum of abstinence, silver and fogged,
so now we will do without dictators, kidnappers, stories
of animals chewing off limbs or clubbed on the ice;
we will do without the scars of trees thirty feet tall
in Poland, Ukraine, where hands tore at saplings.
Now we will do without the history of one and no one.
We will do without the history of history.
But none of this has to do with your beautiful mouth
which now is a stone beneath waves, a struck
match, a view with a turnout and tables where animals
touch with tongues and paws the scent we leave
when we’ve had enough of wind and cold and lilies
the color of butter. You must know your mouth is a story
I cannot stop reading, or a sound of bells, or the sea
at the brink of the sea, little by little, coming of age.