Next poem is a love poem.
It's called "Up Here."
And it's about the danger of language.
The danger of language taking the place of the real event.
The motel was made for love as you were.
I undressed you with grace and tenderness,
kissing each newly bared part.
There you lay, your small white body throbbing
in my hand like a bird.
We were silent.
The right word was not needed.
Supple.
What was I doing, suddenly pacing
around the bed scratching my head staring down at your gaze
up at me.
Recognition.
I would not call you Svelte.
Your breasts were barely a handful.
I liked small breasts, which fit a hand.
Your thighs were a feast though.
And walking now and then I would dip down to nibble them.
They were good, wholesome.
They were the bread of life.
Now your lips are moving.
Now your hands reach up at me.
I feel as if I might be one or 2,000 feet above you.
Your lips form something.
A bubble which rises and rises into my hand.
Inside it is a word, help.
I would like to help, believe me.
But up here nothing is possible.
Nothing is clear.
Help.
Help me.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.