Theft

She wrote of journeys and turning points
sameness and change
the unnoticed that leave marks,
she wrote of roses
that into dandelions slipped
of feelings that
new residences found,
she wrote and wrote
and traced underside of heart
not to me
not of me
not for me,
but I took it all,
all for myself.

Ode to Nostalgia

Ah! Nostalgia!
The underside of all tomorrows
save haven for the timid,
for the averter of gaze
of those momentary eyes
that with fire consume
and with dew drop resurrect;
a place to go but not to stay
in this universe that is unparalleled.

I read the script
which as I read blurred
and disappearing left her behind,
alluring in reticence
mortal in the pinpricks
of enduring presence,
and thus tattooed
I move among the mysterious
an alien planet of curiosity shops
and bottled vineyards 
violins melting into absurd pianos
raindrops on windowpanes
and a storm-wind comforter,
a cleft chin that cuts through ambivalence
rearranges a fruit basket,
lips that smile to a world forbidden
and words that must say something
but remain unread
in the illiteracy of the heart.