the pen moves with
the power of eros;
but the graves hold
back my desire.
it’s hard for dreams to rise
above the speech
and yet transcend the fire.
graves make me think
of how our loves and hopes
with time and weight do sink.
and yet eros rises higher.
outside the wedding feast
the road runs past
the field of fine roses
and stone crosses
and black birds on
the black telegraph wire.
then the graves make me drink.
they stop the gaze.
it can go no further.
but the pen moves
to the power of eros,
and eros just rises higher.