On my way from Amsterdam to India
I took the train instead
of the giant yellow birds who ran
headlong along their path, wings
flapping as if to urge their
flightless bodies forward,
of the marathon run down acrobatic
tracks where I could hurdle, dance,
flip, and spring from mile to mile. No,
I took the train.
My lover’s raspberry lips articulated
(she sitting tall in her seat)
about Gandhi’s teachers, and famous bald men,
and how art and God and love were all the same.
I told her, no, God could not be so little or
so much. And I thought of resting my feet
in the cool canals of Amsterdam, and how clear
the waters felt. And I thought,
no, the waters were always murky.
And I kissed her.
And I told her, no,
I won’t accept your God,
your sweet and flimsy hope,
your wide and dreadful beauty.