I thought I was done writing love
poems. Then I had a moment.
Now the only poem that’s worth
thinking about consists of your
name, repeated as many times
as the structure will allow it.
The river is getting drier
and revealing my face, my hands
supplicant, on the cracking shore
encased in mud and algal growth
A face of pain, or quietness
and ducks scamper about on it,
Clouds of gnats making me avert
my gaze. Can I redo this verse?
It was meant to be a love poem
I’ve lost track of what’s going on
When the new becomes coeval
with the dreamlike, we know true life
in our world has reached a strange point.
I assume the sun once felt like
a hand caressing your shoulder,
I assume. I think of your hand
caressing my shoulder like breath
pours out from within – there we go