Diane di Prima

you are my bread
and the hairline
noise
of my bones

Sweetheart
when you break thru
you’ll find
a poet here

Extract the juice which is itself a Light.
Pulp, manna, gentle
Theriasin, ergot
like mold on flame, these red leaves

for Alan
This, then, is the gift the world has given me
(you have given me)
softly the snow

for Jackson Allen
My friend wears my scarf at his waist
I give him moonstones
He gives me shell & seaweeds

I saw you in green velvet, wide full sleeves
seated in front of a fireplace, our house
made somehow more gracious, and you said
“There are stars in your hair”— it was truth I