she doesn't like the rain through the window

she doesn't like the rain
through the window,
and a kiss is a prayer.

she doesn't like the reeling
gravity of a destroyed
passion either.

but she loves like a
whirling Eros,
and her hands are growling.

(this is a woman
who abandons the sea
for the beach rose after all.)

she says people are good
because they are and
they want to be,

but she doesn't like the rain
through the window,
and a prayer is a kiss.

she finds god wading in the
menace of the purest chaos,
and she still shades toward love.

she thinks too much
about the limbs of all
those fallen branches,

she thinks too much,
but she doesn't like how the
stars are just collapsed promises.

i don't know this
woman as much as
i say i do.

don't be fooled; men
menace good fortune
wherever they find it,

they sing their own praises, thinking
to do so is to fashion for themselves
something of an infinite well.

when in truth, we have no
original waters, only women
do, and it is made from their blood.

we met because it had to
be, and all the fine excuses
of life were scattered.

i should make allowances
for my own blind failings,
i should be easy on myself

and walk backwards for awhile,
to keep my head from looking for
something; to learn to breathe.

but
however
anyway

she is stained glass
in a hungry cathedral
wanting to be dishonest,

but she can't do it;
her womb is too much
of a sacred psalm,

because this is a woman;
and the laughter of her
child holds the real taste of blossoms,

not the words of the poet, or
the vows at the altar, or
the hands of the lover.

people change and
the camber of their hearts
is the shape of real love

that pierces through
the thunder in a
plunging field.

it is unscrupulous
in its designs toward
terrorizing the unfaithful.

it is made to muscle
out the conventions
of the lofty and the proud.

the women i know are not
hungry for you, my friend, but for
an audience with their own destinies.

for example...

this is a woman
who wears sequins
at the funeral of her history,

if only to announce
to the world that the rain through
the window is just another nuisance;

that she is on the verge of
reconnecting to something primal,
something eternally in touch;

that she embarked, she dived
in, she sojourned toward
something you don't understand.

i don't know this
woman as much as
i say i want to.

i try too hard, that's
really the problem,
my want is a toppled pier

that has surrendered to
her breaking waves, her
formidable tide.

but
however
anyway

she doesn't like the rain
through the window,
and her kiss is scriptural.

it is given and not taken,
it is a profuse offering,
profitable to those who understand

that she is equal to the task
of whatever rain that might
come through that window,

and that she needs you not.