The Adamantine Perfection of Desire
by Jane Hirshfield
Nothing more strong
than to be helpless before desire.
No reason,
the simplified heart whispers,
the argument over,
only This.

No longer choosing anything but assent.
Its bowl scraped clean to the bottom,
the skull-bone cup no longer horrifies,
but, rimmed in silver, shines.
A spotted dog follows a b!tch in heat.
Gray geese flying past us, crying.
The living cannot help but love the world.






I have it bad for a West St LTD.
There would be no present musical practicality for such a purpose.
I should want a Hiland, 305 or a SAS.
But the wanting remains.