The Love Movement
Laughter, like the pages of a paperback, tears easily. For you, I’d meet my maker in the darkened corner of a bar. Love, can I ask you? Your answers are what tables are made of, your answers leave water rings, my questions knock us into the reupholstered day, tacked and stapled by the sun, seat-worn to a gracious grin. I love you as much as a bronzed necklace of bones, your bones inside a famine of caresses. How true for us: modern sails are rarely made of natural fibers; age-old cloth is porous enough for a pharaoh to pass. Howling into the path, your voice bears bunkers. You, survivor of pitch and war, of fire and fear, pick the pilgrimage. And, can I ask you? You are the jailor of tea and time, right? So where will I reside in this era of letters, where will I reside in this era of love?