Poem of Lies
There is always a measure of a lie
when I tell the woman I love
she's beautiful
so when I tell you
you're beautiful
you know I mean it.
Love, like butterflies of gossip,
has nothing to do with truth,
only with what I'd like you to know
in the absence of renunciation.
I could say it a hundred ways
in a hundred languages
and you would not hear,
could pluck a thousand petals
walk the staircases of a million seashells
beg ocean wave after ocean wave
dangling from the spool of time
and write lines like a schoolchild.
Here is the first:
you are beautiful
I mean, really beautiful
and in the same way a child collects stones
or a writer collects poems
or a musician collects chords
you collect my lies.
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