We made something there,
something that wasn’t there before
like a now faded world war
tattoo. We agreed that it was for love.
All of it for love. Without speaking of
muses, it was implied that without them
such creations were useless.
Each of us with a Helen of Troy,
our own Van Gogh ear lobes,
our own Donner Pass to cross.
Things in an ocean,
in a mountain,
a woman’s eye,
a bloody envelope.
We saw them in Antwerp
under panzer fire
by the docks that drew
Germans and prostitutes
to the majestic blue folds.
Yet we hesitated too long
the tide is lost.
We are left to sit on a beach
alone with bottles of beer,
and a hunger too deep.
Inventors of Air
March 6, 2009 by veritasxlogos
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