lovepoems

Campfire

The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

yet
I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 








Forecast

“It’s going to rain?” she said
and stood looking at the sky
from behind her door,
the door–her curtain-dress
of waiting.



Occasional Corridor

Image result for medieval surrealism monk

Varo Remedios – Les Feuilles Mortes 


There is an ineptitude
in excess of feelings
that devour all the words,
until they are encountered by a large door
painted with a medieval-mourning,
clothed in a monk-brown;
it is really not strange
for me to be deeply in love
and to be found at this gate,
it is a segue
doubly-enshrined
by disbelief in yet a higher altitude
by no higher altitude altogether,
as if Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.