Is it love what
we have concocted, you and I ?
Like a tea prescribed in an obscure shop on portobello.
A handful of small sticks, roots, dried flowers.
Put in a small ceramic pot to boil until
it is thick as tar.
You hold your nose to drink the tar tea
which nevertheless keeps you alive.
You have promised to forget me once again
and once again you seek me out,
just as you quickly disappear.
If this love or rabbit trick
that you and I perform
through the years had eyes
they would be very large.
As it is ours alone it stays
insatiable and blind.
And for the idly curious: paintings and books conceal more than they ever tell…..
LONDON
we have concocted, you and I ?
Like a tea prescribed in an obscure shop on portobello.
A handful of small sticks, roots, dried flowers.
Put in a small ceramic pot to boil until
it is thick as tar.
You hold your nose to drink the tar tea
which nevertheless keeps you alive.
You have promised to forget me once again
and once again you seek me out,
just as you quickly disappear.
If this love or rabbit trick
that you and I perform
through the years had eyes
they would be very large.
As it is ours alone it stays
insatiable and blind.
And for the idly curious: paintings and books conceal more than they ever tell…..
LONDON
--------------
Does he love me that man? Did he love me? I doubt it. Or Only in his own way: casual, detached, desperate beneath his laughter, his impeccable elegance in gestures and clothes, his mastery over liquor, and his infinite, overwhelming culture, light hearted in company and black spirited as soon as he was alone, face to face with his own silence, whether or not he had a woman in bed or in his arms…
- on a train heading to paris september 2002-
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