It is foolish to write poetry
if you plan to hide your heart,
foolish to kiss a woman
if you plan to keep it.
These coffin circles
surrounded by blank-faced statues
eyes illusions filled with paper-mache tears
if death be an ugly master
then we are not so much slaves
as children watching puppies devouring kittens.
Look at my hands, my mittens the color of bleeding cardinals
My dark boots broken make no tracks across the snow.
For I am late, my form is partial. My breath a wisp in the chill.
The whole of my time, a stained photograph of
half-remembered lights and colors, pleasures and weeping,
hanging softly in the oldest tree of a forgotten forest;
Nothing but a poem that has never been read,
a foolish kiss on yesterday’s lips.
Author, publisher, poet