Where do you live? I want to know, to tell you
that my angry soul loves you dearly.
The afternoons are twisted by your knowledge
of the universe and sun; and the strange gift
you decorated with saliva.
Is the body inside your mouth okay?
Is the ship fallen below your cunt okay?
Don’t tell me; go tell the church closest to heaven.
Small drops of televison emotions rain on the rooftops.
It is you drawing circles in the air with red ink.
I want to say now my heart has no holes, it has large
Stones, door shaped, and is waiting for a forest, with
an engine for a throat, a broken arm for an udder,
and as for an idea, an uncertain gaze over a sandy beach.
From 100 Love Poems (Earl of Seacliff, 2005)
© John Pule
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