What will I do when I have written
the last word I have
to give you,
like a foolish pedant spending his meagre pension
to impress the girl on the acrobat's lap?
Ten years, I have been the dragon
in the cave of my skull,
hoarding baubles for you:
This one is the color of her hair;
This one, turquoise blue, her eyes;
This one, perfect with a green dress.
This one, hard, disturbs my sleep.
I go foraging, consuming cities:
Gold to complement her skin,
Silver to contrast.
These pearls lustrous, opaque, her stone.
I would take you to a canyon rim,
turn a stone to bread and
offer you all this,
if you would worship me.
"It isn't what I want."
And what will you do, when the water
rushing through the burst dam
drops to its native flow?
Will you stand ankle-deep in the stream,
taking that small pleasure
in the canyon sun?
Will you look around, surrounded by bare stones, and say,
"I loved it here, when this was a lake"?