Love is not a poem drinking coffee at dusk
calculating distance of space to close between us;
It's a ratio of silence at the gallery opening;
the dark-cornered guest with an understanding
we fail to emulate.
It mingles like an impaled olive cemented in
glassine. Its grief outshines the beautiful lichen
munching satiated on stone when taken for
granted or aroused. The reminder hurts so we
close its orange-red eye with the sharp fingers
of our mouth.
We reason its truth until shrunken to a memory
of a memory. It's not about our need, though.
Not the climb, the thrill, the release of salt and
oil across our lips. It's about the stomach peeling
from the burn of heart. Or, becoming soggy; stale
our wordless mouths wide as epitaphs, sealed
in an envelope of flesh.
Love is not an Arbitrator mitigating the gravity of
circumstance with the warmth of absolution
between us. Nor is it all wine at dawn, reflecting
its burgundy omen. It's a bite: raw cacao; pine
and bare feet; spoon of ice cream; swallowing
a shard of ice.
It's not a bookie on the bench with a pigeon in the
race. But the very coop where we hatched,
innated with a return tracking device. But all our
educated-ignorance doesn't know how to finish
this poem, so we can get back home once again.
(too "new age-y")
Best, or Kind
(too distant or formal)