The You to whom I write in poems,
please, do not think it’s you. It is
no longer you. It is for certain
someone new. And never was it
someone other than the you
that is simply
Someone:
Someone who is
Sensuous
Serious and Sexy
Who respects another’s point of view.

You know, I’ve watched bananas blacken
over days, months, years of gloom and despicable war,
when fuzzy mold on yogurt grew and
cobwebs etched each wall. I told myself
today, again:
“Get real, there is no You at all.”

The You
I write of
in poetry
forever and always
is simply
Someone.

But yes, it’s true that I, too, made love
in waving fields of barley, and at isolated
churches at the altar, when roads to kith
and home were blanketed with heavy snow;
an icy crypt our bed that night when we
had nowhere else to go. And in the chilly
morning there was no other place I’d care
to be than before that awesome magic stillness
of those snow-capped mountain peaks,
amazed by perfection in reflections on
glistening surface waters; to feel
first sunlight warm our noses; to
contemplate serenity. But the You
to whom I write in poetry is
simply someone. Oft times,
simply me.

From largo to crescendo
Spreads of chords--
See her make music
Mellifluous melodic moves
Quiver, quaver, crotchet,
S t r e t c h.
Now fast, faster, she comes
Loud louder FORTE. Play it…
Hold it, 1... 2... 3...
High. Passionate notes.
Low. Flat. Sharp.
Pure harmony
Like when playing duets
On that baby grand
We made our music blend:
Notes came together
Tonality
Totality
Moods: Mellowness
from waltz to jazz
In sync, harmonious
Poetic voices.

Since that time of
perfect pitch the same
sweet refrains remain.
My sole audience now
is one blue wren, dancing
to his split image in
panes of broken glass.