The Cause

It is because the ideal is love (and it sounds like a sermon,
Like something said distantly by a distant man
In a land where only the sun shines
Through the hypnotized stillness of a vivid sky:
Something empty to listen to on hard benches
Or here amidst the crumbs of sagging cushions)
And because I want someone to love
— Because I think I want to love —
(But again the thinking is merely the thought
Of being surrounded by bright water, bubbling heat,
A tall glass filled with a sparkling liquid, an arm
Resting heavily but without care on my back, and knowing
That all is provided for: the bed is made
For our pleasure, the food is warm,
And the branches are sluggish, the night breeze
Cool) that I suffer while I wait for you, pacing
The rounds of the everyday, catching glimpses
Of serenity in books and sleep, wanting
A different room, new clothes, more money, a life —
It is because I want a wife that pain becomes me,
And because I imagine its relation to her
In joy — to you! — and because I still hope
That I can wobble to a center's
Living axis, always bending
What it pulls to our mutual will, encompassing
And trusting my mundane and prime alike
'Ttl the world becomes our one as if the sun
Were a husband tickling virgin skin —
For this I ask a Lord redeem my sin.