To Desire

John William Waterhouse, Miranda: The Tempest (1916)

I’ve never been to Desire

but I’ve heard the storm crying to come in

sometimes battering even my heart

sometimes making me laugh

and afterward I don’t know why.

Each morning I wake laughing, with anemones in my hair

and my eyes are wet.

And my throat is raw.

Let me in, says Desire, coming to me all veiled in my dreams.

And silence comes dropping onto me like wheat fields.

And sometimes I dream of waking up.

Then,

like one beached on those yellow sands,

in which all is hazy and lovely and just out

of reach,

like one filled with far and near sometimes voices,

I cry to wake again.

But sleep is easier, and forgetfulness, too.