Reflection in a Pond

My sometimes friend, a lady slayer I suppose

A man with notches on his gun

A chalk’em-up lover with rope in his bed

Confided in me once


He said

I’ve lived them all

Every one of my reality based

Non-paranormal sexual fantasies


Of those remaining, my favorite will require

A witch, or at least, witches work

And maybe the selling of a small portion

Of my big blond soul


He told me he wished to inhabit

The body of his lover while he loved her


I didn’t bother asking if he knew

The story of Narcissus

And I didn’t tell it

This would have spoiled some great and ancient

Secret between Devine powers

And every healing tear that’s ever been


But I did say

Knowing your desire you’ll understand

It is only your best interest I have at heart

If I tell you to go fuck yourself


Not long after this

In the high lust of spring

He disappeared


I found growing from his mattress

A single proud daffodil

And cared for it as I could

When it died, I buried it on a low hill

Next to an old dead river

Under a wooden marker on which I carved:


God is a magician

With imperfect speckled doves

Hidden under his tattered coat

And flowers up his sleeve




They will eventually fit together

the lonely pieces

into a whole map.

Being smarter, being the future,

being devoted to their work they

will consult available experts and

reach a consensus.

They will eventually figure us out.


This is my left hand waving to strangers,

my right hand touching your cheek.

Don’t tell me

you were expecting red-ruby slippers.

These are my eyes.

Look at them and keep one

if you need.

Or don’t.

But never say I didn’t offer

to go blind

at the first sign of surrender.


Your favorite love-disaster metaphor

is: ripping the heart out. Violence.

I’ve been impressed by this.

Your are easy with absence or

never quite motionless or

never caught waiting with your face exposed.


These are just samples,

hairline fractures.


Without a fist we circle each other.

Famously non-combative

we avoid the throat.

The path worn in the grass is our witness,

explaining each incomplete moment.


This is how they will find us.

The only mistake they will make

is in naming our reason.