where is my love?

 
 
 
...between the torn
and dirtypages of  
newspapers blown
across septic lawns
 
lying in the treetops
with eyes ripped out
by a vengeful sun
looking for its place  
in the sky
 
drinking expresso  
with the grim reaper  
outside a cafe in
Rome talking about
whatever happened  
to the souls of Marilyn,
Sinatra and James Dean
 
dancing in a field of
crows dressed in the
formal black of their
own feathers while
spitting kernels of  
corn at a naked moon
 
where is my  
love?
 
where is my
love...
 
in all these places, but  
not at the side of the one  
covered with loneliness  
and burning with cold  
trying to remember the  
touch of dawn