Loving is an art:
but I ask you, what is art?
Intangible qualities attach
to a habit, a pattern, a lattice
that allows improvisation
a mad brush, a breath of soul.
If your soul were a vision
what colour would you be?
Warm or cool, could you name it?
If tangible what texture,
silken or bristled?
And what shape:
are you a swan
or a brindled bat?
Give me a frame to suit you:
are you circular or square?
A triangle perhaps.
And as for composition
do you dominate the foreground,
or is that you
slipping away to the left?
Only a detail of your face remains.
Only your finger with that curious ring.
And then you’re gone,
a memory – that’s all.
I recall the day, that hour, that light,
when your voice first touched me,
the imprint irrevocable.
Love, I discern the edge of you glowing and hazy.
I might force the search for a definite line.
I might make of you an image never dreamed.
But love unfree is never love to me.
