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Not a Love Poem #1 |
When you say love poem,
I think of Romeo and any number
of endorphins, lit devotion
and ardent lips. These dream-nights
crowd, bed sheets curve
around legs, empty and full
of waiting; I write late into legend,
scale balcony or shout in the star-night,
urge hands on vines to reach you. Maybe
love poem means crescendo
like a last note or your budding
body, angular and suddenly
vacant. Between us, space
disrupts monologue, and wind
carries throaty-words down
toward hips and spreads
into repose; I suppose each
poison-lick leads to separation, finality
to desire, Romeo knowing
even he could get it wrong.
copyright 2006
Alene
Terzian |
