Thank you. The poem creates its own identity.
It stood beside you for two hundred years.
It never left the imperial fringes,
Except in passages stained by a single tear.
The other night, I dreamed an architect
Recited lively words, punctuated by kisses,
While I repaired the thing you might have saved.
Yes, I embraced that obscure faith. I swerved
And you, my lonely reader, followed me.
Dualities of love as cold as armor.
“I see a street, and over it the rose”:
I can’t believe the things I’ve heard you say,
Or wouldn’t, but for the notes I stashed away.
On to the next stage. I swear I won’t repeat—
Copyright © 2016 John Beer
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.