FLOWERS OF BLACK

In the old age black was not counted fair—Shakespeare, sonnet 127

I prefer the black flowers to the white.
The ink of my poems blends in with the night.
I prefer the black of petal and stem
Which in the shadows will not be noticed by them.

Flowers of black, come back, come back.

I prefer the black eyes to the blue.
The look in-between the look of you.
The look that leads me into the night
Where even the dust is dark with delight.

Flowers of black, come back, come back.

The blind know the perfume is better
Than the bright, informing letter.
I banish the clutter of color from my sight.
I want to feel you—you—in the night.

Flowers of black, come back, come back.

The night has its honesty
As the day has its lies.
If I see, I want to see
You silently speak with your eyes.

Flowers of black, come back, come back.

Put black petals on my bed.
These happy flowers of white
Oppress the memory. Travel instead
To the bed that is always a bed,
Where nothing is familiar with light,
Where a love loves love in the folded up night.

 

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