WEBVTT

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So that's a little bit of
the disappearance of Seth.

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Now the sequel to "Dear Rumi."

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So when I wrote
"Dear Rumi," I was

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thinking about
spiritual absence,

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and I was satisfied
for a moment or two,

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but then I realized
that even when

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you come to spiritual terms
with the loss of a person,

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you still miss that person.

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And so it's a little
unfair to dress it up.

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So I wanted to try again.

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So here's the poem
called "Dear Shams."

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Shams, of course,
his name means sun.

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In Arabic, that word
shams means sun.

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"Dear Shams."

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There is no answer to winter.

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Sun sets over water
falling so quickly.

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You have not been lost.

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Listening for silence--
where and where did you go.

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Twelve-stringed music rejoin me.

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In the sun-year, I
swelled long shadows.

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In the moon-year, the
valley folded itself up.

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You are the beloved
I would not love.

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At the fountain,
witless, and still--

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a stream pours over
rocks making music.

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Could the water rush over me?

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Could you rush over me?

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The sun drops so quickly
into its banishment.

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Could I please, now, forget
to breathe, and drown?

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Will the ocean rejoin me?

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You have not been lost.

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Can I be reborn as a guitar,
and you reborn as music

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to hum inside me?

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One day, you stopped
looking at me,

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and I knew the last
note was lingering

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in the box of my body.

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You did not vanish
in the marketplace.

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I still imagine you
in me as breath--

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broken in thirds,
corded to sound.

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I took your name when the sun
came up-- sun of winter, sun

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windless and wistful.

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Come down across the water.

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Undone sun give me
the drunk go-ahead.

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Last time, I searched for you.

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This time, I became
wooden and resonant.

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Last time, I raved
without senses.

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This time, my angel,
my paper maker,

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pluck me, O pluck me, and hum.

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