landis everson

This Is a Love Poem

This is a love poem
galloping down the coast
of Catalan.
There is no rider.
No one owns it.
Free of reins and saddle, unlike
the poems Lorca and Machado rode,
those that died beneath them.

Luna, luna, por ti ilusion

The hot sun of Spain
sweats the poem.
It goes where it wants.
No one catches it.
Hands grab but the poem is wary.
The teeth of the poem show.
It is ready
to kick or run.
The whole land soars before it.

Sale la luna. The moon leaves you.

You cannot have it.
Pride keeps it free.
Arrogance snorts.
Not your lips, not your caresses, not
the bold honey of your words
tame it. This is a love poem
without love.

Pegasus, ilusion

The Very Last Minute

If there was such a thing as a man-eating moth
the darkness would discover him
before eyes delighted.
You would have found yourself in a wetsuit
hoping he wouldn’t eat rubber.

If there was a moth bigger than an eye
eating his way through darkness to your heart
let him — no beating of arms
no dirty words from your mouth flying
to meet him, hurt him. Swim

out to the air. Let him be to eat you.
Strip off the rubber to feel his coming.
Tell your arms an embrace is worth
more on the inside than the outside.
Let the moth bargain his way to wool.