E Mail to Damniso Lopez #217

E MAIL TO DAMNISO LOPEZ 217


She came
From an ancient
New England small town
In the middle
Of no space.
She came from a town
That was music.

Nothing spoken,
There were only echoes,
Echoes without anything
Being spoken
The echoes
Express our love.
When we speak,
We separate.
Don’t speak,
Wait for echoes.

Should we
Localize
The wilderness
In our bedroom
By putting
On the black iron shelf
White orchids,
Placing the white orchids
In front
Of reproduced
Herni Rouseau monkeys.

Cotton Matter
Could not cure you
Of your crave
To stroke the wilderness
With other Americans,
The Indians.
So, you, incurable,
Were condemned
With the invention
Of a neologism, “Witch.”

So I have resurrected you,
Brought you
To share my wilderness,
My wilderness:
A narrow room
With monarch butterflies
On the wallpaper


Duane Lopez

Posted over on Greensilk