Echo India

Echo India

There is difference between the warmth of place
and the fumbled machinations of skin pressing skin.
It ends in a frenzy.  Indeed, there is a time for floating
and for plunging into the sea.  But many are lost, many eyes cannot see.

With every subsequent collision, greater anesthesia
spreads, numb from repetition.  This is a poor wisdom.
The enlightenment of a moth, that light bulb is not the sun
Love is not something, not someone.

Something that sticks in sides, taunts, and slides
so gently, slips into the space between soul and face,
and in this shrine, in this place, before its altar
deceived, replaced.


I  think love is a little god
Like a little puppy, to which everyone points
and coo's and pets
Oh, isn't he sweet?

Till it becomes aged, and then is left
in a state of simple maintenance,
walked, fed, petted.
Or cast out to the streets.