looking back, I believe you liked to look at yourself on the canvas.
how much time you must have spent against the mirror admiring
the deep curves of your upper body, the shining reflections,
how light hit the contours and shadows
fell along the human places we call man.
you called your own body suitable for the brush,
to what still hangs above my head, no longer a white canvas,
the supple eggplant, deep purple, almost magenta
temples coming through reflected light.
it moves above me like a hallucination, a haunting intention,
innocent vegetable as man from shoulder to wrist.
painted next to me, wrapped around my body
the moment I realized a man cannot be everything
especially one who only knows how to paint himself.
You are a beautiful skeletal inspiration
projecting truth, provoking emotional congregation
humans can’t help but respond
eyes can’t help but correspond.
Isn’t that how it has always been with love?
The sound of the wind gives up telling.
The brightness of the sun gives up blinding—
all is matter not mind, ripe fruit
without an avenue to reincarnation.
Fallen, this body into the ground.
Achingly present in this Earth.
Forage me now so I can be found.
The predator or the prey.
The hawk or the dove.
Or only that busty pigeon without a tree.
Are we not all of them?
Maybe just sometimes the dove.
That bearer of kindness, that keeper of love.
And, does the hawk approach his dove—
Share your secrets with me.
I yearn to know kindness
And share with others, this tree.
And, does the dove in turn ask his hawk, on cold winter nights—
My hawk, oh my hawk, is there no end in sight?
My passion is burning, I hunger for meat.
Show me where the raw and the fresh are to eat.
The pigeon, we know, he implores both everyday.
My hawk, oh my dove.
My bearer of passion, my keeper of love.
Help me taste both, and understand this here tree.
Know the depths of the forest and the rage of beast.
The saint and the sinner, the war and the peace.
The kindness, the passion, the essence of we.