Private Life
From Pinchas Zukerman’s violin
an undertone dissects the room;
what moves through us is private life.
We’re doing dishes, making plans,
although sometimes, in compromise,
we’re half-aware of beauty’s proof.
We dance around each other’s sighs
that fall around like empty waves,
our gestures tracing bright ideas
and weaving maps of purple seas.
What moves through us is simple hope
like growing grass before the frost.
And peeling, slicing, dicing time,
we boil our hours down to this:
the ancient rites of hearth and home.
Monday
A shopfront full of plastic palms,
some footprints frozen in cement.
Some truth is found in loneliness
that makes the world a simple place.
The traffic moves against the morning,
urgent throngs with blind intent,
and on the corner, cold as Monday,
office workers hug their bones.
You love the cutting winter wind, and
walking through the darkened streets.
You look around and see no friend
but find a kind of strength inside,
and living by itself makes sense—
no matter how your life might end.