Wounded as I was--
by the madmen,
the daft Hamlets with poems
in their hair,
the chill men who wanted
to "love" their way
into my warmth
& leave me
cold,

the half-baked
novelists, the doctors
who could not heal
themselves,
the actors
who could not remember
their lines,
the professors
I had to teach;

invading the heart
of my poem--
I did not stop
marching toward
love;
I did not seal off
my heart.

& then you appeared--
suddenly,
unexpectedly--
as life is always
unexpected.

Then you appeared,
arriving
in the same radiance--
an ordinary face
suddenly turning
extraordinary--
eyes, nose, mouth
suddenly
indispensable,
suddenly
beautiful
beyond
explanation,
suddenly necessary
as rain.

Because
I did not stop marching,
because
I never let the scar tissue
form,
because
my heart is open
to ache,
because
my legs will twine
around a new lover
& mean it
(as if love could last)--
you
marched into my life.

You marched in
oblique into the wind,
your hair combed
as if with a fork,
your face sweet & open
as a puppy's
& starving for love & for warmth
as a Dickens hero.

My Oliver,
my Copperfield--
how I want to hold you
& make it all
all right.

Let me march
toward life
before you.

There is nothing to fear
but
stopping.

SAS