one thing I love, or three: "I Wish in the City of your Heart"

I wish in the city of your heart

you would let me be the street

where you walk when you are most

yourself.  I imagine the houses:

It has been raining, but the rain

is done and the children kept home

have begun opening their doors.

I love this poem by Robley Wilson, though I have no desire to analyze it, or to spell out all the ways I love it and why.  If pressed I will say because it is like another poem I love, "The Open Shutter" translated from German by Kevin Perryman, written down first in German by Karl Krolow:

Someone pouring light

Out of the window.

The roses of air

Open.

And children

Playing in the street

Look up.

Pigeons nibble

At its sweetness.

Girls are beautiful

And men gentle

In this light.

But before the others say so

Someone shuts

The window again.

Except that this is the tragic moment -- a moment just as photographic, photographic meaning here light written down, just as photographic as the first -- but the moment of closing up and closing off, not of opening.  And so I cannot love this second poem exactly as I love the first poem.  Both poems though are stories I live.  And I do love them both.  So then I would have to explain that to understand either of these two and to understand my love for them, the key is a third poem, "Lindenbloom" by Amy Clampitt:

Before midsummer density

opaques with shade the checker-
tables underneath, in daylight
unleafing lindens burn
green-gold a day or two,
no more, with intimations
of an essence I saw once,
in what had been the pleasure-
garden of the popes
at Avignon, dishevel

into half (or possibly three-
quarters of) a million
hanging, intricately
tactile, blond bell-pulls
of bloom, the in-mid-air
resort of honeybees’
hirsute cotillion
teasing by the milligram
out of those necklaced
nectaries, aromas

so intensely subtle,
strollers passing under
looked up confused,
as though they’d just
heard voices, or
inhaled the ghost
of derelict splendor
and/or of seraphs shaken
into pollen dust
no transubstantiating
pope or antipope could sift
or quite precisely ponder.

And surely that must make everything utterly clear.