Relativity in the Art
of Spices, Tiles and Stones

you wanted pure form I wanted essence
compressed black and white tiles
lying
but we wrote poetry

I had kitchen scents and spices
a teacup bittersweet with analogies
pouring somewhere
the heart doesn’t make overtures or
erasures

you had a barn you wanted painted
with phrases that meant more than your
words had to say or could say without a noose
around our necks

we write these echoes of abandon with flowers wilting
dead and dying
ripened mangoes dripping off roguish tongues
students of
our bodies merging rendezvousing
parables of light and dark in hours
unforeseen

twilight gods
awestruck in the tinderbox that is love
swans copulating with the necks of poems
bare trees
shivering with the death of our self-righteous
mocking Paradise

we write of stones