I will not write about love even if memories and moon
light up the sky at nightfall.
I will not write about love or about
the language and gestures of fools and poets.
The further the years span the brighter your eyes seem.
I will not write about love by the fireplace on winter nights
or by the sunken garden where we once sat,
drank a glass of wine and walked into woods.
I will not write about love or about your face
resting on my chest and your hair on my lips.
I will not write about love, and I renounce kissing and whispers.
You may find me sitting in a coffeehouse writing on napkins
but I will not be writing about love.
We watch commercials and read fashion magazines,
we call the prison system an institution
Today the day was marked by thunder
people ran across the beach to watch a man flutter in the sand
hit by lightning while sleeping
he must have crossed god’s line.
I have crossed it also.
I will not write about love.
I will be alone like a house gutted by fire,
alone like thorns.
I will not repeat myself
and I will not write about love.