The Book Life

4.15 | April 18, 2010

You are not in love.
This is a love story,
but you are not in love.
You have been haunted,
been followed, been interested
and kissed, been crushed. But this is a love story
about not being in love.

About loving the arch
of your own foot, the flexible bend
of the cartilage of your right ear
between fingers waiting for a train. Loving
freedom. Loving I can do whatever I
. This is a love story
about learning how
to not be in love
with anything so demanding
as another breathing human being.
Love of the inanimate, the not-conscious,
love given because it’s not requested, expected,
to the tulip blooming timid,
to the inch of sky surrounding the tower,
caressing the edges with blue. Oh yes,

this is a love story. This
is the dance you do
alone in your apartment
singing alleluia as you raise your arms
to draw invisible circles on the ceiling,
spilling with joy. This is not
about being in love. This is not
about other people. This is a love story
about nothing but love and you.

[PROMPT: “Choose some lines from a failed poem. Now hum them. See if you can find the tune. Sing them aloud. Throw out the rest of the poem, and write a new one.” I cheated, didn’t sing, but I did take an old poem to make a new poem.]


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