Your personal phoenix
rises up from the ashes of your favorite illusions;
the metal beating of external wings
our simple craft
takes us up to where the thunder hides
and lightning illuminates nothing --
It’s just more sky.
The reverse of desire:
negative space that repeats endlessly
I am the copy -
the original was lost long ago,
or perhaps it never existed
Reality was a matter of seven little letters
to hide-and-seek behind the nimbus;
prepare the moon for a thin blue morning,
prepare my heart for thumbtacks on corkboard.
You are the mirage
of the shadow of the copy that I am
so together we make quite a nice shimmer
as soft as the day we married.
My personal phoenix
rises up from the prowlings of Zeus;
memory as insuperable as that mountain range of myth and fancy
yes, my wings shudder as we ascend the pallid nothingness
joy, fear, rage, despair, boundless cheer. I look up
seeking answers, and I see it all – finally:
