Poetry cannot be about love
Unless words bring us together,
And those are always in prose:
Meet me. When? In an hour.
And if the trysts are blocked—
No more her lips with my lips locked,
Impatient, and sad, she grows—
As my poetry dwindles into prose.
Unbearable becomes love’s mere name:
The shadow but the memory of the flame.
Irresolute lovers become foes.
Words, in sadness, grow few,
Flesh grown silent, accuses;
Loss feeds loss, the past which won now loses;
Prophecy triumphs over poetry,
Poetry that tells of love
Is not telling of love
But only of love’s demise:
I would not be writing this now
If I’m looking into those eyes.
