PALIMPSEST

She has one of those lives,
you know, house in the country,
flat in the city. She writes poems,
drinks coffee, unrushed, always
stylish, lost in thought, her attention
never broken, her kitchen filled
with lemons and vintage tomatoes,
and when she takes a lover,
one in the country, one in the city, 
her loving is slow and deep,
all hay fields and gloaming, all
ardent and exquisite, strong hands 
molding her man's muscles,
and if they want to take her hard and 
from behind she finds another
among the cappuccinos and cut
daffodils reflecting off mahogany pools,
the used bookstores and patisseries,
among the meadowlarks and
the old disheveled barn behind 
the stone and glass cottage. 
And so when you enter her lilacs
and cobbled drive, or meet her
at the park with deer and copper beeches,
you are mindful, self-conscious,
astonished by her apricot skin, her
bountiful hair, her honey sweet
hibiscus hair, and you know 
you are entering her world, her poems,
you all mud-skinned and anxious,
thick-fingered and callused, 
stiff, all slapdash and rat terrier,
and sure enough after the mornings
of lush cotton sheets and ruddy
pears, lunches of avocados 
and cold Gorgonzola salad,  
dinners of cold chicken and yams
and soft furry peaches that tickle 
your teeth in their golden flesh, 
you see them appear in her notebooks,
gradually at first, neat poems written 
with a  poised and perfect hand,
you see intimations, intricacies
of the familiar, suggestions of
your intonation, your petty crimes,
traces of your hands, and hers,
the sound of your breath 
in the deep meadow night, 
the way her bed creaks in her flat,
how her kisses steal her away
from her words, her shuddering
lips, you know then as you take 
once last look at the pond and
its dragonflies, the choking 
water lilies, the insects buzzing
in the cattails, in your last days
of reading Rumi and that none
of this, nothing, is about you,
you are not the paramour, the
Lothario, the sad philosopher 
in these poems coming faster now,
you are the restlessness, the
scruffed and noisy sound of leaving,
unkempt doubt washing over you,
you know then that you won't
drown yourself in sorrow or
long after her meditations
in black leotards, no, you will
no longer lust after that lotus pose,
her calm presentness, no, you'll
wear wrinkled shirts, eat hot dogs
slathered with ketchup and onions,
you'll avoid bookstores and 
swear off coffee shops and 
organic food, you'll survive,
traces in print, clues, evidence
of some intimate endearment 
and passion now suggested and
so easily forgotten, save the 
faint whiff of lilacs and coffee, 
sweet clover and the mad
honey of haying.