love poetry

The flapping folds of a balloon filled in
Brittle morning. The furnace empties in flame,
air rippling light buoyant fabrics until the
Sky opens and lifts her palm, the balloon
Resting gently on the fingers, until
Engorged fabric straightens and fills and
Then, finally taut and rouge, lifts and
Carries you like you carry bird cages
From here to there, carefully balancing to
Not swing the cage, but giving the captive bird
Flight in those confines.

In March only the smokers stood outside on the street where the party was allowed to spill.

With cigarette or without, smoke rose from the lips. I don't remember her smoking, but I remember the touseled-haired girl who read poetry from a cloth bound book.

She was the lover of an effeminate man who loved beautiful books more than beautiful women.

And possibly she loved words more than her lover for she used the tip of her tongue to lick them into the air, to press them into microphone.

It was the hair I noticed first. Soft waves in ringlets around the soft face with red lips and tiny features.

But then everything came into place and I blushed away from this girl with the bluejeans cinched at the waist, the heavy doctor martins and the sweater tops, flattering to the grace of the arch.

Your student room
Could barely fit one but
We fit nicely.

In your repose
You fiddled with
German verbs

I lay propped up
Dizzy with sleep,
Your words hypnotic.

You translate a German
Text: The Difficulties in
Educating Immigrants.

Your brow, with its
Strong dark lashes,
Furrows.

I study your pen
As it wiggles black
And dots umlauts.

Your questions peal
Through hazy sleep
I cover my head in duvet.

The thick cloth book
Slaps as you flip,
Finding meaning.

The staccato words form
an alien German landscape
as verbs and nouns splay:

Adjectives, adverbs,
Gender seem placed
Random like code.

You press me for answers
But I don't know your razor
Aryan tongue.

You simmer before the page,
Ruminate about a tree,
In November, on a cold bench,
And ratchet a pen
Between your fingers.

Words crunch through
The gravel at your feet and dapple
Upon the page in cursive,
Evoking the spires of trees.

At your desk, pressed against
A clammy pane of glass, a mirror,
You strain to perceive differently
But words retreat; the page is still

Clean in your room at midnight;
But you need to write down
Your crashing thoughts,
And then comes day
And the Muse neither visits your pen
Nor your paper.