This poem, loosely, a sonnet, is from years ago when I started giving consideration to writing contemporary sonnets. I edited again, as I do every two or three years, it comes from a place when I ventured myself a romantic. I have come a far ways since then. It is more a contradiction at this point, but a bit capturing.
She ate purple
cherries, flared a flute, I offered dates,
She blushed. This
feeling—a martini, this height—a
Resurrection. I
mean not to thump Bibles, my love: Are you
Wisdom? We laughed as mystics, danced a paradox.
Her heart,
mango-peach: her taste guava. Yes, we kissed.
Nevertheless, the
art was aqua, a grayish blue. We smiled—
A tulip, cried a
rose. Her soul, a raspberry pink: I partook
The pain. We
nibbled—strawberry figs. Our garden, an
Orange-brown. Passion
trees, a thousand plums. We ate—
A pear, necked the
winds. Such lavender breasts—a beating
Heart. We gripped mud,
flung a rock. So much by us
Spirits: alive a
flame. Such as fate: a snake by fruit. We
Opted knowledge,
athirst—to see. Our light soul, a tenet
Curse, thus, an
earth, by drench of blood.
