That I have the audacity, nay, impudence
to even try to write words that resemble
the shadow of a shadow of a poem
and at the same time
bathe you in the light of Neruda
simply indicates my encroaching decrepitude.
But despite my reluctance
the cut stem has already taken root
and appears to be growing
without my permission.
We have built a house from
one thousand, eight hundred and twenty five bricks;
each wall a palette of weathered earth tones,
a patina that resembles Venice.
The roof is sound.
The windows reflect canals,
striped sun and rhapsodic cats
and are liquid with rain.
The doors are open more than closed
and are streaked with our juices.
The garden is full of jungled sweat,
sweet bird song and bursting fruit.
The kitchen births delights for nose and tongue.
The couch is napping
but the bedroom tires of quietude
and dreams of knotted ecstasy.
an oddly familiar number
given to fingers and toes
and magic pentagrams
multiplied by innumerable
words, touches, skies, wakings,
openings, closings and sharings.
A dance in five movements,
that has filled five years