Sparrow and Scallop

A tiny house, up on a hill:
that's where I'll be, still.
And when you feel all overwrought,
I'll be the only soul
who's not corrupt.

And we can lie together
in the mustard and the clover,
and sing each other's praises
over and over,
alone as the loneliest last stars of morning--
plaintive as sparrows
and sealed shut like scallops:
nestled in our solitary loving.

But like dogs on a trail,
our deer-hearts will be hunted
by people with the zeal
of over-nervous mothers.
And we'll vainly
try to hide from them:
lower our eyes
and cover our skin,
grow out our hair and hide nymphlike,
behind
the translucent vestments
like reluctant brides.

We could hide this way forever,
as meek subsistence farmers;
preoccupied with sowing
and nature's simple, sainted order.
Born from the constellation of the archer,
headstrong as stallions
and trembly as rabbits;
united in our adroit
and earthy cunning--

we'll ignore them and laugh.
We'll ignore them and laugh;
let their gaze roll like water down our backs.
We'll ignore them and laugh.

But like dogs on a trail,
our deer-hearts will be hunted
by people with the zeal
of over-nervous mothers.

Each striving to fondle and fetishize
and worry themselves over
the same solitary consciences
lain wasting in fallow fodder,
searching the sky for a limit on its borders,
star-eyed as boatswains
and fate-bound as martyrs,
cradled in a hollow in the soil.

Or, we could ignore them and laugh.
We could ignore them and laugh;
let their gaze roll like water down our backs.
We could ignore them and laugh.