You lay with me in emerald grass
While sunlight played and fireflies slept,
You laid your coat on the slippery mat;
We lied and loved and lay and wept.
 
In slippery grass I drank your lies
Like nectar in the garden’s May;
I licked my own lies from your lips
But that was when we lied and lay.
 
In liquored nights you lie with her
In sweaty grass on an emerald hill;
You lay her down on your coat of wool
And lie to her as she knows you will.
 
The grass lies bent, the flowers bruised
In the glossy field of waving rye,
You lips and ears aswarm with words
And almost every one a lie.
 
She cannot hear how you lied to me,
How you laid your coat, how the flowers bent,
How we lay together near the leper tree
Before our love arose and went.
 
You’ll come again to the grassy place
To lie behind an April rain
And by September lying still
This is the place you will have lain
 
Loved and lied and laid and lain
Again, again, again, again.

I miss my tail, 
still see it in my mind
twitching – no, swaying – 
provocatively, on the sidewalk.
It will forget me
find another stump
make a new attachment.
I’ll wander tailless
for a while, lighter;
it’s easier taking corners
this way but still, it’s a shock
at times, like combing your hair
after a drastic haircut;
you scrape your neck for days
but your head feels free
in its new nakedness.
After a while I’ll start hunting
a new tail, try a few on
            twitch, twitch
keep one for a while, see
how well it corners,
lug it around 
for too long after.
By then I’ll be too old
to fit a new one.
I’ll have to live
with this other, tired tail.
Sometimes I’ll miss
my old one, the one I left
on the pavement
this morning,
the one with the diamond
pattern, iridescent houndstooth,
gold threads invisible
to casual eye, threads
that match mine
exactly.

            [sau’da-dji]—Portuguese. A feeling of longing for something
            which is gone, and probably won’t – but might – return.
 
Saudade.
Now I get it,
this ache like hunger
only more painful
when you can’t stop
thinking of that last meal:
how bright the salad,
crisp the crust,
tender the bread,
tangy and full of juice 
the meat, and how
you will never taste
that meal again.
 
Saudade.
The way the last time
or the first time
remains in your mind
and you go over and over it
as your tongue worries
a sore tooth: the look,
the embrace, the kiss,
the sweater you wore
that lies ever folded
in your drawer, the letter
you never lose track of.
 
Saudade.
That twist in the stomach
because that’s the place
where love punched through 
saying here, here’s this hole.
I’m leaving now,
deal with it.