gershon hepner Poems

Two nudes in different rooms,
two women wearing
silly hats: four wombs.
I am comparing
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In Beijing’s ancient labyrinths,
the hutongs, lined with terebinths,
siheyuangs the leaders call
dilapidated housing, sprawl,
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With the end of the affair
you recognize the bitter truths
that can’t be recognized before
denouments. Lovers are not sleuths,
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A wife’s heart is like water in a well that’s old,
but when it is aroused it turns to steam
and cracks the surface of a husband who is cold,
repairing it with cooling vapors of her dream.
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Seen as sex objects, purely
domestic creatures, wives
must feel indignant, surely,
the ones who’ve got their lives,
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Craft, faith and narrative all fuse,
creating medieval art;
if you add the inspiration of the muse
you get the Bible. À la carte,
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If love’s not love until it’s lost,
when it can be transformed to art,
enjoying it entails a cost
which should cause artists to lose heart,
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Knowing much must give way sooner
or later to the knowing of
much less, then nothing, like the lunar
cycle, full moon first, then half,
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The end of our exploring
occurs when we arrive
some place we find so boring
we don't know we're alive.
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If I can’t find in you what I
would love to have I’ll make
you up, and love you as I lie,
inventing for my sake
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