it is love
that makes us write,
or makes us all
right,
into those rites
those passages
where we trust
that at the end
love still waits
for all of us
for here is love
and there is love
touche, douche,
everywhere and everyone
become love, as love
becomes us.
if you see me now,
i am looking down
holding my head,
closing my eyes,
and you may say,
i am lying, how could
i write about love
in this lonely hour?
love is a black bird
against a blue sky
a child with a toy gun
wants to hit it
the dream is for love
to fall and spread its
legs again, and there
love shall start all over
again, and again,
assuming meaning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem