At the end of the world, the flowers bleed .

All the endings in my life rise up against me
like the sea of troubles Shakespeare mixed
with metaphors;
like Vikings in their boats singing Wagner,
like witches burning at
the stake-- I submit to my fate.

I know beginnings their sweetnesses,
and endings, their bitternesses--
but I do not know continuance--
I do not know the sweet demi-boredom
of life as it lingers, of man and wife
regarding each other across a table of shared witnesses,
of the hand-in-hand dreams of those who have slept
a half-century together
in a bed so used and familiar it is rutted with love.

I would know that before this life closes,
a soulmate to share my roses--
I would make a spell with long grey beard hairs
and powdered rosemary and rue,
with the jacket of a tux for a tall man with broad shoulders,
who loves to dance;
with one blue contact lens for his bluest eyes;
with honey in a jar for my love of her;
with salt in a dish for her love of sex and skin;
with crused rose petals for our bed;
with tubes of cerulean blue and vermilion and rose madder
for her artist's-eye;
with a dented Land-Rover fender for her love of travel;
with a poem by Sanchay for her love of innocence
revealed by experience;
with soft rain and a bare head;
with hand-in-hand dreams on Mondays
and the land of fuck on Sundays;
with mangoes, papayas and limes,
and a house towering above the sea.

Itpeed, I surrender to thee.
Thy will be done, not mine as usual.

If this love spell pleases you,
send me this lover, this wife,
this dancing partner for my empty bed
and let her fill me from now
until I die.