I should pretend the image in the mirror
is not myself and that the yellow lamp
is something I've dreamt. I remember the plump
pears and plums, the thunderstorm's dark furor
over the pastures, the cows taking cover
under the trees. I smell the warm and damp
skin under her hair and the humid swamp
is colored with pink and turquoise. She conjures
herself while I'm asleep, I am the instrument
of a lover I cannot know, I am the purpose
and the explanation. The pyramidal monuments,
the epics, the broad oceans each must choose
a shore to disclose. I am the argument
a mirror makes for love, a dark red rose.
No comments:
Post a Comment