Names written in water /
Names written in glass
and steel /
Names
spoken
only in whispers and in a thesis
sung
on a campus
somewhere in the city


(Sung
while Coltrane's ghost
raves on.)

~

Morrison
dead
in Paris

~

Morrison
buried
in Paris

~

Morrison
alive
on stage
in LA

~

Coltane
at the Vanguard, New York

~

Miles
at the Blackhawk, San Francisco

~
And all the dances done
in coffee shops
at the edge of the universe
as a poet
writes
these lines
to her only true love.

~

(pause)

~
I still imagine
our two heads
sliced open like grapefruits,
pressed each half to half
and mingling acid juice
in search of sweet.

I imagine
all my dreams
sliding out into your open skull-
as if you were the poet,
I the reader.

I imagine all your dreams
pressed against my belly
like your sperm
and singing into me.


I imagine my two hands
cupped around your heart
and stroking it.

I imagine your two hands
making whirlpools
in my blood,
then quelling them.

It is hunger
and pure love,


Do you even exist?
Or have I been conjuring you
in these poems?

And if you do exist,
does this poem make your
absence palpable?
These longings printed in black?


Pondering of a poet.

~SAS