Sunday, September 27, 2009


she watched the words fall out of her head/and land on his chest as he lay in his bed/ she hoped they'd melt and slide off his skin/ she prayed they wouldn't make their way in/ to his heart.

To Rumi: I am tired of love poems.

I picked up
a book
of your love poems
this morning

I am tired of love poems

of wistful wishes
and languid longings
of fire
and flames
and passions
that burn

this world
that surrounds me
has made of love
a practical thing

to be contained
and understood
through methods
and formulas
and surveys
and psychology

I am tired of the fight
my half protected heart
reaching out to those
in full heart armor

There is no field of ecstasy today, Rumi.

I am tired of love poems.