13 March 2013

A Sonnet: By Heart

I watch too many movies. Seriously. After
awhile they begin to run together like those
finger paintings of that kid — you remember —
who tried to use all the colours and whose roses
always turned to muddle puddles. Dangerous?
Not really. They make no demands — and the death
distraction? That is short-lived, along with
the thrill of bare skin stroked by cameras.

But a poem. Is always dangerous. By heart,
it’s poised complete, the thing itself, with all its parts.
Undiminished. At your fingers. Both comb
& geisha, mirror & vase, fuse & bomb.
And you can rewind them at any time:
to where a kiss got out of hand is still a sigh.

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