Another Poem

In the stone consternation of her mouth lies all her age, the ancient frown of the goddess ruin
In the stretches of green her prettiness, in the widened black only the promise of something further, yet carried by the male face
The worrisome lines come to her mouth to form back easily to the mother’s carrying and deplorable frown; the thin lips
The swollen stone lips holding the first independent unreachable sadness of adulthood
The quiet distance which holds the first age of sensuality
Held in the half-slope of her belly
The sadness which is yet surprising and yet fleeting, therefore holds yet the reachable grief of girlhood
Slowly feels the stones forming in her heart, yet to be dense and softened
Tricks of girlishness, she collapses in unheld laughter, or held happy laughter with trite remnants of bashfulness, only for the respite of having her head down and seeing nothing but her own momentary immersion
The trees that promise yet talk as old men
The Buddha and all those searching not yet fearsomely perverse she
The searching yet easily manifest weakly in the scattered bodies of boys
Where she seeks her only spirit in the doting non-comprehension of openmouths and non-held mouths and sour shallow smell
In which the Goddess is revealed fearfully and may dance in performance of strangeness, to play on the confusion in her power
In which the same stone face weeps in its doubtful asserting belief in her, and weeps as she is kissed for not really being kissed, and for to connect if as girlish vessel with the heights of the evening
Yet to be strange and yet to take for herself, as weeping child Goddess
She is the vessel of all emotion
She is the vessel          she can only be
Her tears are her warrant, her tears are her skill
Her tears the solid expression of all that is scattered painfully across the people, and of love
Her tears from the huge breast of the mother in lament and impossible love
Her tears from the honest weakness of the girl
Her tears which flow the beauty out of her soundlessly, with perfect warmth, the familiar rise through the chest behind the eyes, the moment of sharp swelling, the honey relaxation into the exquisite heaving flow of feeling
Her tears from the distant autonomous mouth of the stone ruin’s secret inability to be
Her centre which can do but love and pleads hatefully endlessly to be loved as no one ever will so singly as she does
Her outer which will thoughtlessly shed itself in destroying humility
In accidental worhsip- how she tried to stand against it! but could only make it on her back
Was praised as beauty and she knew
Her secret inability to be but woman love.