Monday, September 10, 2012


No, no, – no, no

That is not how

She looks.

Her lips, they would
Part so much more
Like an eclipse,

Like a sunrise,
Every inch of me

Her quicksilver curls – they
Were so much
More indistinct.

They did not hang so
Plain and ineloquent,
Not in the least.

You wretched combination
Of my vice and my
Delicate addiction,

You lying collection of
Trichrome dots of light
And little lies.

You deflower her ideal,
My dim idea of her –
Tender flower.

Unable to coagulate these
Words, paltry gossamer, not
The image

Which is what I seek to re-
Create, but cannot – not if
I like the dim.

The premature rays of her
Matchless smile successfully

So now, fond of blindness,
I like my photo of
How she looks.