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Monday, January 22, 2007

Book of Poems

- I -

our love was a
book of poems
in total contrast
to other volumes,

its discarded
dust jacket coloured
with the full
spectrum of desire,

there was something
in the pages
of its soul,
filled with

mind-reading poetry;
loaded with knowing,
words seduced to form,
lyrical foreplay

written on the hours
of a heated pen,
a nib fermented
in burning oil,

it was a book bruised
by wear and tear,
well thumbed,
often read,

and yet it had no title,
not even our names.

- II -

we would open the book,
sometimes hurrying
past the foreword -
no openings necessary

for a mind always open,
well-versed in all our words,
but we always paused
at the dedication page,

there it lay between us -
a blank page
beating like the
hidden heart in the book,

to afraid to give the book
a name, to afraid to praise.

- III -

During one verse
I had thought it was so
as to fool casual readers
by the empty space,

foolishly imagining
there'd be time
to brand our names
in inkfire,

too sure that we had
built on these poems
a love's memorial
as solid as the Taj Mahal,

until we lost the book,
unnamed and unclaimed,
to rest on some lonely
corner of a forgotten bay,

a large crease imprinted deep
in the spine's symmetry,
its covers in a tent shape,
housing no one except the wind,

trying to turn the pages

Read more of my poems >>

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