i refuse to sonnet, but love


you fill the canvas i
paint love softly blushing i
am your pigments.  



my mind is beside you there is no distance 
the atlantic ocean evaporates there are
two countries two cities then only us

i like imagining you with me looking eyes into the
eyes caressing the other lost in the other

like picasso i reuse my canvases a scientist 
will discover you someday hidden underneath 
the stars a red building hides your body your 
face is in the moon scientists will carefully revive
you my lost art examining microscopically 
straight into my heart



you speak of poetry but i am all you know of kahlo
plath but hughes writes of what she left and rivera 
deserved to be left for the soft sweet body of a 

i went to love’s funeral and wept thinking death 
eternal but it is the third day if I am venus you are my botticelli

it does not seem they live happily ever after 
obsession after the soul meets the kindred 
love the art is tortured

i writhe in your prose wanting desperately to be 
touched by more than the air from your tongue 
or your percipience 

juliet between the sheets as apollo texted me 
thoughts on what you did not say what you 
will never say  

crumbs for literary upper crust 

but you retweet me #significant

you are made of sex passion kafka and thunder
i hide in the first letter of the first word of a
stanza of a poem ripped carefully from my chest
i anticipate a soft, palatable rain and most

tenderly your tongue at the top of your teeth
touching lightly quickly i have not a word
a syllable a breath

so i speak to you in black and white as you flip
through the new yorker and stop at a familiar 

you creep into my syntax stealing my thoughts
holding couplets for ransom 

i look into my likeness wild eyes breast breathless
wolves at my fingers and blood on my lips this mirror
mirror shatters