after W. B. Yeats, for her



________________________________________

Reading him I suddenly stopped:
the stringing of words like pearls,
a necklace for the deaf,
I lay upon by bed, in real pain,
breath upon breath,

remembering the one class i attended
in my ambitious youth, and how
the ample-bodied woman seduced
me with something other than words,
though we failed together
to be heard;

and how I listen still,
after all the whiskey and pills,
after all the miles and melting skies
have worn out these solitary eyes
for something other than I will,

no lover of words for their own sake:
I who now invite you to attend
to your private school.

Perhaps in Mexico, without paper or pen, and open eyes, or penniless
with a hungry heart and everthing at stake;

and when life begins to break you down,
then and only then take up your pen,
and share the knowledge of your equally
foolish heart, my friends,
my dear friends.

This may teach you
the accidental wisdom you need
to begin, and provide you
with the uncommon tools to
listen to the living,

and thus be heard
by those coming to taste upon the winds
a portion of your part.