There’s
a campfire, a beating campfire, ever your eyes. It’s
Te Amo, a burning love,
addicted to music. I see you—my
soul,
to churn a covenant, a cowboy’s passion. We ride and
dance,
to chance a song, lost for Te Amo.
How to touch,
and
ever love, a poet mad. Oh for eyes
green, if only a night,
an
alien existence. What was said—to live so cold, as warm
as
kettles? Its hung-over love and hangover passion, to crave
a
hinge. Oh for sunlight, a shoulder partial, the sickest piano.
A
phone is ringing, and love answers, to enfold a dream.
We’re
a kingdom parted, a long-distance kiss, among kings
and
queens. They love for liquor, and magazine clips, jealous
of
love. I drift—for panic, to wreath a heartbeat. Its prose for
dice,
a trestle for scars, falling through landscapes; for there’s
a
campfire, a mosaic grave, to imbue an opera. I must repent,
to
sable eyes, pitted in the retinas. Oh the poison, and vicious
weeds,
to cut a valve; for Te Amo, and born
to mischief,
surfing
through a desert. Its oak guitars, and sanded verses,
and
keyboard strings; for Te Amo, a
poet’s dream, adrift a star.
