L'Amore
I doubt that you know it for
anything but crimson stained sheets
and a lost innocence.
Arapist of life
long ago stripped me of my own
thrown down, drowning in the raging rivers—
left in the gutter of the side walk
dregs of dew from my thighs
finally forced apart.

L'Amore
this is not the rumba
nor a french kiss
where two tongues battle and dance
for domination.
You, whom I see over my shoulder
staring back from the mirror
you do not know love
nor jealousy, for that matter.
There has never been a creature to walk the earth
beautiful like a desert rose
blooming out of cobwebs
no such thing
to hold your heart,
if it is even there.


I think I am talking to myself, rather than someone else.