March 9, 2020

• not a bit

  

   

  for Jonah, i will write no tragic history.
  the magazines in the library of my heart
  are mostly porno or chinese romance.
  there are smiles among the broken sharks’ teeth,
  a bedroom on fire, incense, ice cubes,
  heat, thirst, and lust.

  the sky puts out its lights. the sage of love
  meditates. there are candles, whole nights
  of laughing, ferocious arguments, threats
  of suicide. beautiful words,
  collected ants, acorns, moss, and lightning.
  then love left home carrying a bird
  and a branch and a well-honed scottish dirk.

  but for you i would write poetry like a nightingale’s cry,
  the colors of May, the works of Chopin, a deer’s gait,
  a lonely moon, a palm tree, a quiet death in a red closet,
  a stack of second hand goods, a taste of grapefruit
  with a bitter aftertaste like sorrow.
  a rocking horse floating like a phantom,
  a silence like handcuffs,
  a secret vanishing in me,

  not a bit like Jonah

  • 6:34 am
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