I can't write about love.
I'll write words. Here, I've written:
"Love." I could become absorbed describing the warmth
in the pores of the skin. In all of them. The pores
in the shoulder's socket. The pores in the lips.
I won't drop inebriated onto the couch. I'll keep on writing,
but will ignore the much harder syllables, such as "longing"
which is but a double touch:
The one who has left a burn in the palm, and the deeper one -
its echo resounding in memory. The poem is
the sanctioned lie between a crass desire for clarity
and memory. Correction:
The sanctioned lie between the blood and the imagination.
Poetry is the tongue of the stutterers.
I mean, I think so.
For, if there were no stutterers, what would be the use
in rhythm. Clock. Ocean. Wind. Whistle.
Having written so much poetry
I learn the true way of love,
in particular, all that concerns
white doors whose edges are gold, their weight ivory,
and nights their hinges groan with shameless bliss.