The artist wants to own what he sees,
The poet wants to own what he hears,
Like I wanted to own you,
You, and all your fears.
But the painter and the poet find
There is too much to own—none of it will be owned.
Ownership, in creation, is the first thing that is barred.
Poetry is not war. In poetry, peace and forgetting are.
Put the painting away. Whatever is wanted is marred.
Of course I want to own all this.
But who owns the last moment’s kiss?
Do you remember when I held you and every living flight of your face was mine?
Do you remember when I loved you in the flowers, and we drank the shadowy wine?
The mind wants to own the body.
The body wants to own the mind.
Why are the more than loving always the less than kind?
I can have this, but only if it doesn’t do anything and it’s blind.
We find there is too much to lose,
So much to lose—that nothing is finally lost.
The body is immense and the mind doesn’t know what to choose.
Take my hand! It’s mine, but now it belongs to you.
I am gone. The distant mountains are blue.
Did you miss me? I’ll find something else to do.
Of course I want.
Do you remember when I held you and every living flight of your face was mine?
Do you remember when I loved you in the flowers, and we drank the shadowy wine?
