What if love is a yellow gel pen?
Bright, beautiful, illegible?
And if you have left your vision in someone else’s well,
My ideas are drunk in the corner.
I lack spirit.
I have spirits.
Paris write me telling me to come
when love is nothing.
I will be held in my city,
and I will wait
between the lovers wrapped in their coats like gifts.
Third Eye Witnesses
She harvests roses,
The world watches her sleep.
Birds peer through her window
like so many anxious dignitaries in a
court of intrigue.
She wears the scent of sun
in a vial around her neck.
He will hunt her better nature.
color his prayers with her name.
This is yearning –
to be jealous of the air
because it can touch her everywhere at once.
In his suit of wool and guilt
he watches her pick bouquets of breeze,
spinning in a plain of demolished satisfaction.
At night, he whittles mathematics down
to an immaculate paste of 2
and rubs it over his body
Tomorrow he will wait by the light
and draw her in with his want song.