January 25, 2008


The interior
is an Arucanian tree
roots pushing into earth
in search of that
            which is also
             the source of desire.

There are no politics
apart from this.

What blossoms from it
turns us into lovers
with the hearts
of tigers
              (even in old clothes
                even with gray hair
even in the uncertainty
that moves us forward
into uncertainty)
                            there is only this left
                            after everything else
                            falls away
she who waits
apart from ourselves
that part of
                  we have missed
                  without realizing it
she who has searched for us
where we canít
be found
                  and finding us
                  wraps us in her shawl
and sings
with the voice of our voice
a lullabye
                  in which a fledgling
                  rawness beats its wings

—Paul Pines

Posted by dwaber at January 25, 2008 03:02 PM