Love Poem
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A love poem that argues with itself
is perhaps the perfection of love;
what is love but a conflict,
a set of rules to be broken? And love
is said to know nothing, love is blind,
so is love without sadness or regret?
Does love look back over its shoulder?
Love in need of lust or sacrifice --
or without the love of another?
Would I see love as a sheepish man
hurrying to a job he loves, mindless
to the lovely city-women who surround him?
Is love really a series of consequences?
Once love is done it cannot be undone:
a fire, once burned, is never the same; love
knows no history or state of love, does
it not know itself as love in a mirror?
Does time give love wrinkles or age at all?
O moon, your tides of love, do they recede
in and out lovingly on the shore of my bosom?
Love is a bitch, a harlot, a serpent,
taking love from my purse -- but how much?
How much does it cost, how many pennies,
how many kisses, how many thoughts, smiles,
gestures, glances, suspicions, assumptions --
is it love when our eyes meet each other
and yet we see further than eyes, but rather,
at a person who challenges our eyes to see?
I am far too young to know love.
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