Poem

woman love poet

This thing
that you are

lasts
for-
ever.
Word.
Space. Time. Memory.
Imagination. Yes.
Blackened flowers,
burnt moments.

Distance
from this thing
that you are,
desire does not relinquish.
Scrunched eyelids
in bright October sunlight –
bright flashes, stars
in the darkness – slowed
moments always come
back to me and others
who find you flowing
in and out of these
moments of desperation
on a deserted beach,
holding onto, dancing into
the imagination
of others, turning
on this thing
we want to detect,
we want to conceive
again and again
in this thing
that you are
to rise up
from the ashes
of blackened flowers, burnt
moments, lost love.