Ceci n’est pas


This picture’s not a pipe.

That actor’s not a king.

Shadows aren’t anything.

Wax fruit is never ripe,

no matter how well made

or how hungry the sculptor.

It can’t be peeled or pulped or

turned to lemonade.

I’m sorry to inform you:

even the steamiest scenes

on the most glowing screens

won’t substantively warm you.

The lines I jot across

this treacherous blank space

can’t conjure up your face.

This is not a loss.