I love a poem, not poetry.
The last glint of humility
among the bank-lines of humanity.
I borrow your eyes from time to time
and from time to time I can see myself
a small gold egg, cracking and then
healing as though the edges of my face
never existed, but instead faded.
I love a poem, not poetry
because behind your eyes is electric
danger, a socket of tissue and tide
that I might travel through, or stop
to bury a lightning bolt in the sand.
You don’t ask for the words back,
only your vision of the words, for which
I am happy to oblige, but I’d be lying
if I told you that I didn’t ruin the image
you held in your hands, to your heart.
But don’t feel guilty, you say,
it’s only a poem, not poetry.