Robert Bly





There Are So Many Platos

The mourning dove insists there is only one morning.
The nail remains faithful to its first board.
The hoarse crow cries out to a thousand planets.

The sun goes down through ghettos of clouds.
There is one Burning Mind and so many Platos.
The Morning Star rises over a flutter of wings.

To those who make up music, and write poems,
I say: Our task is to become a moist tongue
By which subtle ideas slip into the world.

Probably we were born too near the potato bin.
Like the potato, we have many closed eyes.
A touch on the thigh displaces all the heavens.

There are more planets than have ever been found.
They rise and set again. Some people say
A painting is a pitcher full of the invisible.

Robert, some images in this poem are just right.
It is probably as good as anyone can do
Who is still living in the old inn of desire.