They were friends.
They are enemies. It works. Love was
art, deception, pleasure and sorrow; misused, crowded inside, a heart filled
with groceries: barnacles, barracudas, bitter-sweet bread, and loving was dear
to spirit. They were friends. Anything
to irk balance … to pursue with diligence the ache which makes a soul’s breath:
the way one lies, those sick to find balance—in something unsteady, and adoring
seems so vulnerable. They were
envious, opposite beliefs, she needed both—the hours bending that way, social
comedians, isolated nuns and priests—to find what hurts, to become Monopoly,
if sung softer into the bishop’s ear. Cold exhalation. Warm facial prints. Better
where dawn arises. One for husband. One for play. She became unbelievable. They
were friends. They are enemies. It doesn’t work. Love is art. Tides have turned, billows in
winds, self-same ghosts, another horizon.
