This morning I fell.
A bird was singing and the sun
was tipping over the mountain
and I fell in its shadow.
Such a thing, a friend said,
happens only to poets.
I said I was afraid
of the fall of night.
She stayed with me.
The moon rose and we
together fell through dark
and light. Poets say,
that is love.
For Tony:
For a poet falling is never simple.
It's something more than many and one.
We stumble and fall and fall for a lie.
The rain falls hard or not at all.
We fall in and out of time
and never know where Tuesday's gone.
But the maximum casum (the greatest falling)
is falling up while falling down.
It's a kind of flying.
That's how poets fall in love.
It takes but a look.
The ground lifts us up
and knocks us down.