LOVE POEM #8

we were air
brushed out
of the picture's color-grip,
the canvas put us together at the ribs,
hinges wrapped around the others
weakest elasticpoint.

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.