Should I be talking about love?
I have heard that I am supposed
to be talking about love.
And have I ever felt it? the opening
in the head? The rush of water,
or blood, through inadequate valves
no. Though
I can tell you about beauty
(moments of);
the light, at night, on a woman's chest,
branching along her collarbone,
divided by the dip between slack breasts,
or light caught in the corner of an eye,
or light reflecting bluely from the sky,
or light,
there has never been
a moment that lived past the moment
in my head: never a want that grew,
and did not at once burn,
and even flew.
Oh never.
Should I, then, be talking
about
love
