Not every angel wants to know my vices.
Inside my passport is only a triumphant life.
Where I cast my eyes I look with spirit.
Where I voice my desire that object lives.
What I touch I understand eternally.
Imprints of my heart are left in houses.
Windows give the impression the ocean
is a reflection, airplanes acting like angels.
Flights tell me I must be spontaneous.
Cups that embossed my mind with divine saliva.
So let’s go, leave your ankles inside a dream,
pursue a gate willing to mesmerise an open space,
into a land that uses tongues for clouds
and voices of people needing to move.
From 100 Love Poems (Earl of Seacliff, 2005)
© John Pule
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