It’s about the water surging in your ears.

It’s the dew on your eyes for your awakening.

It’s an after dinner bath,

it’s the straining of abdominals and the aching after

you make love.

It’s not about the crying

or the attention

or even

war.

It’s about aspiring to be an epitomized star.

Shining.

Varied.

Revered.

It’s not settling, it’s not ludicrous.

It’s love.

It’s pageantry.

It’s passion.

It’s the fingers as they grace your face

or reading Rilke in December.

It’s about wanting what you want

and loving what you like.

It’s about a lover’s face

or a warm embrace as they hold you near.

It’s about the silkiness of words,

about the buttery fabric of a plain silk skirt.

When you cup water in your palms,

you don’t see your reflection

because it’s not complete clarity you expect.

You expect distortion because movement makes you wild.

It’s not the sting of a slap or the saltiness of tears

that inspire poetry, that mesmerize lovers.

It’s candlelight, a simple flickering

that exists only to please, not to injure with flames.