Ars Poetica, XI
This is the myth of love’s tenderness:
that it only heals and cannot wound.
After thirty years of spinning around
in space, you hear echoes, wilderness
among stars devoid of human tempers.
Linger there — it is quiet — your breath
audible as the staccato burn on a hearth.
Dear reader, how often are you tempted
to infidelity with words: those curious
shapes that simply demand you listen?
Offer a translation your life can bear.
Revisit poems that spark mysterious
doorways in the mind and glistening
eyes. Let ink seep into what you hear.
