Love is a subject
glorified by apparitions
by lengthly ghosts passer-bye’s
good-bye hosts. Love was not
Cohen’s victory march, rather
On the slow rise
your words are as
knives or butterflies.
Still sleeping in a
daydream, a walk-about
Trail of replicas to my
If I dared write
what’s in my heart,
what’s on my mind,
what drives me on,
I’d attract ants,
and bring bees
to the smell...
I see you, not as words —
not a single quote
or chapter — but as
an unfolding story.
And I love reading the story
that you are —...
The birds sit in fragile nests,
Atop their trees they are twittering,
What sounds sweet to us, are obscenities,
They scream at each other to not come near,
Lest their their home woven of rotten twigs,
The birds are twittering,
Making every forest lousy with noise,
While they stay rooted in their nests,
Feet sank in the branches,
With moon and sun in the skies,
The birds twittering echoing through the atmosphere.
And they must keep at it,
They must continue their noise pollution,
Lest the veil of silence fall over the world,
And like ripples in a pool of water become still,
And capable of reflection,
They must keep their angry songs,
For they are terrified of the image that silence does reflect.