I never knew until this morning
That Manhattan could be pink and blue
Or how much I love you, asleep
Deep in those closed eyes
Is your dream of pink treetops, Chagall visions?
Are we floating through the sky with a goat?
Is it as silent and white and pure
As I feel in my waking dream of you?
I wonder if Eve, on the first morning of creation,
Had an inkling of the way she could rip
the fabric of dreams.

Green is my love
Green like the blades of grass in Spring
Warlike wounds to the soles of my feet
Pricks to the red red exterior of my beating
Is green love so warlike, so prickly?
I know a childhood rhyme about a zebra.
What’s green and red all over, lover?

A love trembling, a quaking soul,
Heart’s red drips on new grass
A lover who finds Spring comes early.

There are no trees in my garden.
Grass has been cut, hedges pruned.
Attacked by love, I lack strength.
I fall to green grass and look up,
Up to the stars and sky,
But I can’t see—branches hang over
And shadows shelter the ground.
A tree has grown in my garden.

It grew unmolested and unmolesting,
Until faintly, I fell.