Love Poem

Love Poem

Do not bring love into it,
I have forgotten its taste.
Much better the addition of whimsy,
That warms the body longer
Than can worm-eaten love.

No, do not speak of love,
My ears are stopped to its inflection.
Much better that you whistle,
A lonely plain-song wafting over
Discarded nests of love.

It isn't love I feel,
My skin is enameled to its lure.
Much better to avoid its touch,
Its roadmap penitential avenues
And bridges left detoured.

I cannot now see love,
Eyes chained to a blinded mast.
Much better to avoid the sight,
Of that light-darkened reef
Love's white-cane stars and all.

I do not hope for love,
Or its crossing of my path.
Much better wishes can be made
In this narrow transient vale of life,
Some company for one.

But if, perchance, skirted love would beckon,
White-flagged and all a tempt,
I would sit down, negotiate,
For tho I walk an only trail
To you I might admit,
There's room enough for two.