Sunday, June 10, 2007

In the ruins of your balcony (for Joni)

I look into the eyes she painted,
The eyes our creator created
Eyes of nausea
Eyes of peril
Eyes of violence

My lips sealed by the kiss of a blue butterfly
My nose smashed and repaired by a raging bull
She stands close by a white silhouette doing her best
To remind me we’re both human and wanting

The remains of another prescribed day
Looking at your yellow railroad warning us if we breathe in
The air around Tom Paine there will be nothing left but our
Imprint and impassioned souls

She’s not painting anything less than my real face
White shafts of paint and plaster shoot from my head like
Greek or Roman pillars and I’ll never forget the way her
Antiquity smelled like wildflowers

I study the remnants of a portrait she breaks down
With every fire stroke of her bewitched fairy tale
And I’m both horrified and elated

I’m still a young lion, a novice savage desiring
Sinew and space to consume or take sanctuary in.

June 10, 2007

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