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sábado, julho 02, 2016

These Poems, She Said

These poems, these poems, 
these poems, she said, are poems 
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man   
who would leave his wife and child because   
they made noise in his study. These are the poems   
of a man who would murder his mother to claim   
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man   
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not   
comprehend but which nevertheless 
offended me. These are the poems of a man 
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,   
she said. These are the poems of a man 
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s   
hands, woven of water and logic 
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These   
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant   
as elm leaves, which if they love love only   
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea 
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,   
and not a beginning. Love means love 
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.   
These poems, she said.... 
                                       You are, he said, 
                That is not love, she said rightly.

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