Poem from Amor

American Poetry Review, The, Jan/Feb 1997 by Lima, Frank

There are no bones in poverty and pain. You advise me to write poems of insanity, poems of a face eternally hidden

by laughter. Spain's greatest architect slept with you a quarter of a century ago. Now am your youngest poet, and

fill your bed with ink. In the other world, in other words, I threw away my shoes looking for you on the throat of a

flower. The eyes of the brolacchan lack the great gentleness of paradise. And I live in the vague terror you will call and offer me a summer song and coffee.