Constant Lover

Constant Lover


Porch light that drips
down the hips
of our wooden lattice
is death,
opportunistic
moth
attracted to all souls.

The fine powder
from death's wings
covers our eyelids
when we dream,
so close to death,
waltzing
in the arms
of our constant lover.

We are drawn
to lovers
by green force-fields,
by the blind alchemy
of magnets.

The neighbors are afraid.

I say fall in love
with death;
surprise is part
of the victory.

You might as well
enjoy one of Van Gogh's sunflowers
vibrating death,
or lean against
the carport's wooden post
embroidered
with the funnel spider's
irresistible dinner invitation.

Indeed, might as well
open all the windows
to your brain
& live fully incognito
as an amphibious lord
with the magenta
eyes
of a creeper frog.

Alan Britt

Posted over on Word Catalyst Magazine