Well, as you all know better than I do because I've only
been here about 10 days, the Southwest
is a very healing place.
And I found myself here one summer--
here in New Mexico, I mean--
and wrote what I hope is one of my more tranquil poems.
It's written-- named after the late great painter
of our century, Georgia O'Keeffe.
"O'Keeffian."
"Through the windows, a piñon with its precious nut,
each which must be picked and peeled by hand,
darkens in bloom.
And the old dogs, called in, sleep.
And the soft adobe cools by lamp to crimson and, too, darkens.
I am alone and no one I know for a good 1,000 miles--
what the hell?
Freedom to scale, and no one to call to.
For months, I have lived for the day
I could reconcile my anger with my wish simply
to start over as your lover.
And now, with my heart, content as the ancient ocean,
both figured into desert and alone,
I release you as heat transforms the apricot and peach
trees painted on the desert of the year I hurt,
each beetle, centipede, black widow,
what I am supposed to look out for, like the rattler, who
contains my death more than any other, I also love and more,
for the love is to love the most feared on this red Earth,
with its heaven dark blue like I imagine the mind,
because the body doesn't have to question day all night,
nor the invisible moon on whom I practice your face."