The last poem is called "Now that the Subjunctive is Dying."
This person and I were having a conversation
about the subjunctive, believe it or not.
And he had a book on--
oh, a really thick book on historic forms
of grammar and stuff.
And so I looked it up.
I wanted to see what was going on.
And in this description of the subjunctive,
it had this phrase, "Now that the subjunctive is dying,"
and then it went on to describe why and everything.
So, I wrote this poem that day and I
tried to use the subjunctive in as many places as I could.
I mean, that is the poet's function, isn't it?
And this poem, first, for the woman who asked me today
about how I know when it goes into lines and prose and stuff,
well, it looks like this.
It starts out-- it's in four sections.
It starts out very linear, then it goes into a prose paragraph,
then it goes into two lines, and then it goes into--
so that's not an explanation, that's an illustration.
Now that the subjunctive is dying,
the interior pulse of loosely closed mouth
after love, roof and tongue in that pause of not
what might be, but learning each seam of you,
how plum and undulate life of testicles goes on tenderly.
Soles of feet in water, yours, if only candlelight piles up
on porcelain edge of tub to fall off with of glide soapy skin.
Now clouds blowing towards us, the dark's
away in a midday light that might have been Italian.
Pigeons on the other side of glass five floors up in wind
marked with faint dust streaks swoop down,
curving arcs cut sideways, given depth by milk-colored stucco
buildings, shadows in the old style,
summery, and fire ladders climbing down or up
to antennae.
We are lavish rooms with many doorways that open out.
Your face, if that is your body standing there,
suggests the hand on a knob that could be possibly turning.
When I left you those hours and went for my Saturday massage,
Mary laying her small brown Sicilian hands on my body,
felt the tightness move off.
Did you feel it go, she said.
It left.
You were so open today.
Something's happening.
The door may shut, but he's opened it.
He's standing in it, listening to what you might be
able to say, what he can hear.
Touch to tell you.
Listen to touch everything.
This is this day in which someone didn't run away.
Sleep after little sleep.
Sweet afternoon, as if not disfigured by anyone's time.
Only bits of fog hide in air.
I lie on your bed reading Rilke and copying his best
lines into my notebook.
Wake up hours later, deep in snow drift,
pen still in hand, as though writing.
We were all night finding each other's tongues and knees.
We were all that could have been in our own finishing.
Still, sleep has taken me into late afternoon
with the corner of your bedspread pulled up
over me while you, on your back, in air, above the couch,
in the other room, discover your body below
and a girl dreaming of a door.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
Come to the reception.
Where is the reception again?
Student Union
At the Student Union.