Howard Firkin
(First casualty of love)
Some things are absolute and some are true.
Some things appear to vanish, then they float
back into view, like photos of a boat.
Some things are obsolete and some are new,
and some things are. Invisible and there.
The truth is just another wave-form, pulse,
an energy that moves our words around,
converts them into light and lyre sound,
to lovers’ twenty questions: true or false;
to something felt approaching through the air.
The touch upon my skin is not the sun—
that’s only half of it. The warmth I feel
is you, your touch, the something that you’ve done
with words, with truth, imaginary and real.
Some things appear to vanish, then they float
back into view, like photos of a boat.
Some things are obsolete and some are new,
and some things are. Invisible and there.
The truth is just another wave-form, pulse,
an energy that moves our words around,
converts them into light and lyre sound,
to lovers’ twenty questions: true or false;
to something felt approaching through the air.
The touch upon my skin is not the sun—
that’s only half of it. The warmth I feel
is you, your touch, the something that you’ve done
with words, with truth, imaginary and real.
