You were the guillotine i've tempted.
if love lives or dies, You must know,
i am not melanion.
You're not my atalanta.
my pannier is empty,
bringing no apples of gold,
but pouring forth a song.

our soaring souls shall not faint nor tire.
while paris wails, Your star still shines.
It shines much higher
than any other star.
Your love hangs like a lamp;
set out to light my path,
and give guidance through night.

the blade falls as old women knit.
flowers in Your porcelain hands,
bend gracefully in winds
and arrange themselves
(as if to understand).
we did not waste our last breaths.
cling, closer Love, and close Your eyes.

the light of a whole life
burns out with extinguished love.


*****************************************
i cross bridges not burn them

i want to make my poems touch
like parentheses building a bridge
over intricate harbors and seas
(connecting where "i" end and "You" begin).
it's here that we'll stop to watch
the waterlilies and fish below,
my arms around Your waist
(and Your scent intoxicating).
kisses speaking nonsense,
bind up the clocks,
in love's fair eloquence,
and sever their ticking hands.

where the wild flowers lies,
a sunbeam finds passage
upon my mistress dancing;
and i sing ending without cadence,
missing the final note
(a note i can't find alone).
throwing pennines into wishing wells
(to catch Her in that impossible tone),
i'll dream and watch,
but never guess
cause it won't fall into place
but rise up and sing through my soul.

i know,
we live in a world of heights and depths,
of distance and motion;
i'm glad
we both broke down at the same time,
same street, same service station

it's between parentheses
(not at the beginning or end)
the story of my life is told.


 

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