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.