THE CHALICE AND

THE CHIAROSCURO KISS

The abacus does not think

about arithmetic.

The parenthesis does not know

it is qualifying anything.

So do not separate the to

from its verb

by boldly splitting

the infinitive.

Do not take nuts

from a squirrel,

hospitality

from a hostess,

the ticker-tape

from the parade.

Let the falling rock

have its gravity,

the chalice

its chiaroscuro stem.

We are all human.

We make mistakes.

And in the errors we make

is an elegance, a design

we must try to see

like the illusion

that toys with our optics

and our nerve.

Let’s not be

the shrewd politician

that avoids the question

with an obfuscating answer.

Let’s live inside the sentence

we are writing.

Let’s leave later alone

and tomorrow unfurnished.

And just for now,

together,

let’s watch the chalice

disappear

until our faces almost

touch, kiss.

Maybe then we will see

how beautiful we really are

and ourselves

in each other.