(1) Coffee on the Lawn
That the chair is white; that a cigarette
package is green is not my joy. Blues,
clouds heaving off-white,
skies are not my truth. What I remember
is shaped, holds as a garden.
There you came with cups and tray,
all my strength a tremor finding
place in your pulse. Like the magpie’s tail
your wrist moved as a rudder in silence,
ebbing me to where I dwell knowing.
(2) Pledge
You opened wide your hands
and spread them linen-bright across
the wind-smooth table of your knees
the way thick bloodleaves of the maple
– place where even the dust reposes –
open their veins a net,
breeze-chimed hammock at the sun’s wayside.
Unlike that gold-fatigued old rover
I laid my face frank in your keeping
– rest, highwayless at last –
finding in your breath my pillow
as my palm rounded perfect to fit
your anklebone’s immeasurable coin.
--Lloyd Haft (from Atlantis, Querido 1993)