there are no metaphors left now
for love. everyone has had a share
from the local policeman in his uniform
to your parents and the little girl
with plastic shoes who disturbs you
in your contemplation of this
when i approach you my mouth
is filled with this emptied word
when i open to say it the darkness grows
inside me are spaces vast and forlorn
from nothing i articulate something
this is the last metaphor.
from being to non being
i give birth to love
every morning as you rise
as soft and as quiet as a star
for love. everyone has had a share
from the local policeman in his uniform
to your parents and the little girl
with plastic shoes who disturbs you
in your contemplation of this
when i approach you my mouth
is filled with this emptied word
when i open to say it the darkness grows
inside me are spaces vast and forlorn
from nothing i articulate something
this is the last metaphor.
from being to non being
i give birth to love
every morning as you rise
as soft and as quiet as a star
Breathtaking.
ReplyDeleteIt reminds me of the one poem you wrote once where there was, metaphorically or not, a little animal stuck in your throat and it would give birth to your voice. It seems that every emotion, every feeling can be made pregnant through your words. Something is born.
ReplyDeleteExactly my thoughts, Vincent!
ReplyDelete