By poet Richard Howard, whose reading at the Hammer last night I missed. So sad. He’s one of my favorites.

For S.

Music is one means of telling time
That forces memory
To conjugate the tenses of the mind
In terms of moving sound:
When I hear music, all I was I am.

Love, I think, has something of the same
Effect, the other way
Around, permitting what has not yet been
To come into its own:
With you, my love, what I will be I am.

Saturday Morning

Beds are made close to a wall
flat
Against the blank places.
This is so that most faces
Can turn away from all
that.

If I turn, the time swarms.
Word
Of mouth carries the message
Up and down the soft passage
From a hive that hums
hard.

I am not lonely here:
fear
Dissolves in mirrors, some
Dangers melt like sweet salve
On a wound. You must have
come.

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