What I can never have
Is her—when she and I
Loved with the same sultry cry
In the garden and the leaves.
Hidden love, on the run, in the outdoors,
Is the best love, no matter what anyone believes.
If you have not kissed shy, full, breasts
In the moonlight, when any moment
A stranger might intrude,
You have not seen Jesus Christ, or ever been delighted by the nude.
If you have not written a love poem to one you should not,
The saints cannot hear you, and your sun isn’t hot.
When she and I were sober, and equipped only with language, which betrays
Love, still we loved, and if this love stays
It is because of that tree and that moon
Which, when the night arrives—
And that will be soon—
I will think of her while doing other things.
Romance, which other people hate, still sings.
What I can never have!
But I had it, and this is why,
In my breast, forever, is that same sultry cry,
In my mind, forever, that terrible love
Which puzzles with its beauty, love.