I love that image
love it, not mine
not yours, I love that face
which in the hidden artifacts
of poetry is mine, yours.
What do rhythms say, speak, in that image
is there a visage shattered
contemplative, like a thinking sage?
In that image, what’s yours
mine, breaking distances
that image is a shattering piece of hope.
Time cannot travel,
nor the image, mine yours.
The image speaks poetry besotted with love, it writhes in pain at the smatter of the word, or the pain of blood.
The image is requiescent
and hidden, it stares me
in my face.
The image voices so many
rainbows. I am in love with it.
Not me, you.
