Wandering Thought #98

All poets are fools; they love the world more than it deserves to be loved, and when it hurts them they bless it. All poets are fools; they inscribe their holy verse in a woman’s body, and turn her into mist and light. All poets are fools; they are meant to suffer, and enter a place of light. All poets are fools, they bless what hurts them, and love with a passion that rivals the sun. All poets are fools; blessed are the poets.

Self-Portrait

I

In his eyes
you can see it,
a wound reaching
deep down
into an abysmal place
that opens
to an infinite sky.

II

I was invisible
until she saw me,
the woman I erected
with words and shadows,
the woman whose eyes
are a luminescent ink,
woman, my double,
with a sly smile caressing my ache
only to ignite my longing for her –
her – an imaginary being
blessed by a suffering she sweetly calls –
poetry.