You All in White

Whatever cities are brought down,

I will always bring you poems,

and the fruit of orchards

I pass by.

Strangers in your bed,

excluded by our grief,

listening to sleep-whispering,

will hear their passion beautifully explained,

and weep because they cannot kiss

your distant face.

Lovers of my beloved,

watch how my words put on her lips like clothes,

how they wear her body like a rare shawl.

Fruit is pyramided on the window-sill,

songs flutter against the disappearing wall.

The sky of the city

is washed in the fire

of Lebanese cedar and gold.

In smoky filigree cages

the apes and peacocks fret.

Now the cages do not hold,

in the burning street man and animal

perish in each other's arms,

peacocks drown around the melting throne.

Is it the king

who lies beside you listening?

Is it Solomon or David

or stuttering Charlemagne?

Is that his crown

in the suitcase beside your bed?

When we meet again,

you all in white,

I smelling of orchards,

when we meet --

But now you awaken,

and you are tired of this dream.

Turn toward the sad-eyed man.

He stayed by you all the night.

You will have something

to say to him.