She was raised Mormon, I think,
Something to remember as I
Imagine light in her blue eyes,
I, who love images that can be angels,
That I can make dolls and props in my dreams.
II
The angel, genderless and blank, sits by the window,
As dream of this actress, Mormon and reactionary, cruel,
Sighing, as they do, at my foolishness, passing the time
Smoking expensive French cigarettes.
I must dream, somehow, so I can feel.
III
I wrote a poem, starting her, remaking her in my image,
As I write of an Eden that never was, a heaven I will never enter,
And a peace my mind will never allow.
A naive sexuality. A lustless affection.
Any dream to wash of the stink on my true soul off.
I'V
In my dreams, in my madness, in my loneliness,
I stand before this psychosomatic and unreal angel,
I touch her face, I softly kiss her lips, she loves me back.
I make poetry from a memory of my sweetness.
It isn't real. It's all I have.
No comments:
Post a Comment