Language
I call you
love-eyes, bright mind,
the first of epithets
in our secret love-language,
where words become you and me
and we delight in this word-play,
language love, soul syntax, plus
where it seems the future
will not be abbreviated.
Descriptions fall short
of experience. I am left to
meander in metaphor.
A fortune cookie
with only one word hidden inside--yes.
The part of the wave that touches my shore
again and again. Skipping class,
but learning more.
The used book I bought as much for
the notes scribbled in the margins as for
the poetry inside,
a brand new pen that was a splurge
as far as pens go, like the one I'm using now,
thinking of how you are so much delight...
a kiwi berry
a certain slant of light
an evolution of language and , in turn,
a shift in how
my eyes interpret signals.
1 comment:
This is great, Liz. I especially think the last stanza is really strong. You should meander in metaphor more often! ;)
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