Spring, for Poem

Love is surfing with his sons in the south, where the light is different
and I am still wandering at sixteen, my skin blistering with the burn
Kindness is East with his tall-windowed house on the coast and his big dog
Running slow laps around in the mist
And making the bed for his lady love
She’ll come eventually, more patient than I
grateful and with armloads of well-tended flowers
Power ‘s mother chastised him on his facebook page
His face looked shadowed and he had suffered through another death
Beautiful Power only wants sex, no conversation so I said no
Music disappeared altogether, leaving only a book on mythos and me, wondering,
Did I make him up twice? Am I that much of a masochist?
Those rolling eyes, those fluttering hands, the running into the street to grab and kiss me another time?
Passion lives so far away
A different continent I’ve never seen his tattoos or been able to read his words in another language
Better than mine
Never even seen his eyes or a proper photo of his eyes
But sometimes I imagine the arms sleeved in ink as a kind of harbor I will never visit
Chaos drank a whole bottle of wine in my living room and wailed about the loss of his wife
Who then returned
Long limbed and husky voiced
And Chaos said mildly, “Oh, things are better, thank you for your support, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to talk to you about it anymore.”
Who’s left?
In a jaunty hat and a wink, so familiar I’ve known him for lifetimes
Contemplating the shadows of goddesses on the wall the erotic metaphors of death
The way the right word is worth a thousand pictures
Inflorescence, let’s say
Or mellifluous
Or marl
Reminding me that every word uttered from the soul is an extension of the self
And every self is connected by the right word
And Spring, Spring has arrived!