icon

ICON

so far as I can know

the only debt I owe

is my overdraft from you

and one I cannot pay,

signed with your spring`s first honey

and electric wave,

your street-light`s running

to a harbour inn

( in a port that became a horse of a different colour

when you put up the Great Wall

of China, from where I watched

you spirit off to bliss

from whatever tumbrel I was carted on).

Now I am asking more

than I can give to be as free

as I have to be to be me

and for yourself, for you to be you,

your eighteen - year sun - ripe Renoir nude,

hair uncoiled in pendant fronds of sun

not yet fully risen but already with a moon

under your feet setting in a ring of silver sea.

Should I have tried to make this icon to you then,

I on my sea bed in graffiti being

young and off my head and dumb?

We can remember we held each other up

and dressed each other down

for two years` tides slinging in and out

so don`t need now to plead

or to move to seek dominion.

And we`ve since both had stranger crows

to pluck than when harangued by gulls

half-starved after our skirmishes

we were white taut notes plucked

by green water, the sky`s black flames erupting,

the shell of our world splintering in each other`s mouths.

But anyway, now our money-time

has come, and we eat out any time we want,

fattening and forgetful of our love.