alchemy

water collected, the rippling surface throwing up reflections of a streetlamp.
a poor substitute for the moon, but what else am i going to do in portland's october night?
one might turn the eye inward and imploy memory to the task. i find it takes a little of both.

then how much of this thing called love is nostalgia?
there is heat in those lips whispering to my inner ear.
though, i must confess to bogart and bergman and the accompanying orchestral surges.
or perhaps it was juliet -
'give me my romeo; and, when he shall die,
take him and cut him out in little stars,
and he will make the face of heaven so fine...'

so herald the algebra of hearts' contignations that one may find the moon in streetlamps, dreams in a glance.
passion to breastplate. breath to tremor.