you're getting tired of these, I know, but there's a scroll-down button
"Jag skulle hellre vara där med dig än här ensam."
how does love die
when it has no heart
no brain
no coffee cups
no overcoat
no toothbrush
or newspapers
when it cannot walk
through an open door
and must be pulled
dragged and wrestled
through hallways of
blindfolded hearts
how can it cease moving
and how can it
simply stop
if it would not move
(
an old injured dog
or a mountain inured
to a bulldozer
)
of its own accord
folding legs and billowing
lungs and singing
itself into existence?
how does love live if
it has no death
no coffin
no nails
no urn
no parlor
or paid mourners
pouring glossolalia
tongues into honey jars
and squeezing cheesecloth
handkerchiefs for every last
tear collected as though
for irrigation
how can it cease living
and how can it
simply go
when it refuses to die
(
the last matriarch
or the staunch Bakelite
of Caruso's plaints
)
of its own volition
volleying itself upon
scarred and sacred fields
wounding the love-sick
and healing the love-lost?
how does love make love
when it has no bed
no mirror
no sheets
no mate
or voyeur
heaving itself across
galaxies of light unfurled
across pale-white thighs
swaddled in lax envy
-
throwing itself into
the belly of the wily Swan
waiting in the center of her
universe to vanquish even
the opposite of light
-
quieting itself after
a moaning of dissatisfied
kisses launches forth from
sweat-lined runways?
how does love weep
when it has no tears
no brine
no eyebrows
no sobs
or pillow
seeping itself into recessed
corners as a tidewater fog
spreading as hands across
her face in a caress
;
singeing a canyon of days
and weeks lost in the flood
through topographies of sunken
cheeks and wrinkled lips?
how does love love
if it is not love
and cannot make itself
walk or sing or speak
or grieve or lick or
kiss or swim or suffer
,
if it is not free
or will not move or will
not ask or will not leave
,
if it may not fall in love
with love or with us yet
gravity pulls us ever
closer to love as we brush
off our pants and tend our
concussions
how does love live
if we have killed it
and dressed it up in
rags and worshiped at
its feet
setting ablaze and tossing
ourselves onto the pyre
and drowning on the Kshipra
to the strains of a muted
Kumbh Mela waiting for
this ambiguous honey to fall
into our skies to indulge our
appetite for universal
perfection for the secrets
of radiant joy
even if it is simply a myth
how does love die
when it has no heart
no brain
no coffee cups
no overcoat
no toothbrush
or newspapers
when it cannot walk
through an open door
and must be pulled
dragged and wrestled
through hallways of
blindfolded hearts
how can it cease moving
and how can it
simply stop
if it would not move
(
an old injured dog
or a mountain inured
to a bulldozer
)
of its own accord
folding legs and billowing
lungs and singing
itself into existence?
how does love live if
it has no death
no coffin
no nails
no urn
no parlor
or paid mourners
pouring glossolalia
tongues into honey jars
and squeezing cheesecloth
handkerchiefs for every last
tear collected as though
for irrigation
how can it cease living
and how can it
simply go
when it refuses to die
(
the last matriarch
or the staunch Bakelite
of Caruso's plaints
)
of its own volition
volleying itself upon
scarred and sacred fields
wounding the love-sick
and healing the love-lost?
how does love make love
when it has no bed
no mirror
no sheets
no mate
or voyeur
heaving itself across
galaxies of light unfurled
across pale-white thighs
swaddled in lax envy
-
throwing itself into
the belly of the wily Swan
waiting in the center of her
universe to vanquish even
the opposite of light
-
quieting itself after
a moaning of dissatisfied
kisses launches forth from
sweat-lined runways?
how does love weep
when it has no tears
no brine
no eyebrows
no sobs
or pillow
seeping itself into recessed
corners as a tidewater fog
spreading as hands across
her face in a caress
;
singeing a canyon of days
and weeks lost in the flood
through topographies of sunken
cheeks and wrinkled lips?
how does love love
if it is not love
and cannot make itself
walk or sing or speak
or grieve or lick or
kiss or swim or suffer
,
if it is not free
or will not move or will
not ask or will not leave
,
if it may not fall in love
with love or with us yet
gravity pulls us ever
closer to love as we brush
off our pants and tend our
concussions
how does love live
if we have killed it
and dressed it up in
rags and worshiped at
its feet
setting ablaze and tossing
ourselves onto the pyre
and drowning on the Kshipra
to the strains of a muted
Kumbh Mela waiting for
this ambiguous honey to fall
into our skies to indulge our
appetite for universal
perfection for the secrets
of radiant joy
even if it is simply a myth