If
all I can give you are a few anonymous
stems of thought, I might as well be
a candle glaring at the moon. Everything
about art is artificial. It is yours
for the taking. When I
give
myself, reality
should rumble like ancient thunder
between us. In the end it will not be my
words you will remember best, it will be
the way my arms pulled you into the circle
where love battled for its few moments
in the sun. It will not be my poems or my
generosity that soothes the distance death
will bring among us. It will be the memory
of kisses, the conversations that made them
inevitable the nights we slept in each
other's arms dreaming
our way past the devil
and into the words we used to pave
the way so the world would know that
beneath our synthetic ramblings two
creatures, real as wolves, broke just enough
rules to love one another. |