LOVE POEM #8
we were air
of the picture's color-grip,
the canvas put us together at the ribs,
hinges wrapped around the others
Dragonfly corpses falling down the edge
of every painting's frame,
where we are active
in lapping half-silence,
the oiled shell of a canoe.
Zeros float through the air
smiting monies to nonexistence
from the screen high on all sides
waterfalling the place into
two, that hold
the ballroom's tiles down one step at a time.
High in legal wisps, where laughter breaks,
then breaks again, we are won from sad islands
always by the same oilbrushed boat: a streak
of light fresh blazed across our wrists
two knots of bleeding silk
lashed together by dissolved space.