By Franklin Joyce
Love is like the mountain sea
Shimmering tween twin rivulets of erosion
Lapping upon the cliffs, speaking a voice into the mist
That the mist has never heard
But remembers, as the river droplet recalls the mountain spring
Realizing that this sound is a song of ancient terror
A voice that speaks from deep wells of memory
When the mist drifted over the sleeping depths
And shuddered at the immensity suggested by such
A little thing: a wave, or a flushering from some unknown god.
Love is like the scream of the black vulture at midday
As the field hands look up and curse, he looks down and ponders
The end of all things, or the beginning of new things
Gut coils and brain pudding which this race so loved
So repudiates. One day they are free to love
And the next they serve only to feed those I love.
In between they curse the birds, they curse their depressing shadow.
Love is like the sun at midnight, the light is always elsewhere
Prattling through daisy fields with the wind
Whispering to the brook, while she giggles at his caress
Upon her tremulous curves and eddies.
Then something moves, not in the manner I would walk to a chapel
Or bend down and retrieve a pen from the muck,
More like the snow globe of my life, has suddenly been shaken
And the dust that collected on my vision
Only reflects the little bits of white plastic more brilliantly.
Love is like running alone through the desert in the dark
Groping through the embrace of cacti, smothering the cretaceous lips
Of scorpions with kisses; blaming the darkness for the pain,
Then one day the sun rises
In its light the vulture screams
And the mist recedes to the sky
Beside me another has bidden
run until you fly
for I am here
and I love you
and that is all you need to know.