THE PLAY OF LOVERS
Pears soft to the thumb, wine.
Now the sun is the moon, each
look a new word, phrases to arrange
like roses in a vase.
Lovers. Everyone has seen them fall
into a blur of change; one leaf
and then another on the lawn. Shade
gives way to light. Snow comes down.
Do you see them, two figures
in the distance making their small mark?
Words, too, submit to years. Plain
flowers in the yard repeat their trick
of vanishing. The sun is the sun
and each look is seen again and again
until faces disappear.
Everyone has seen it.
—from Rattle #20, Winter 2003
Colette Inez: “A poem is born right here, somewhere in my heart, in my blood vessels, in my gut. It comes to the brain much later. I have to feel them actually pulsing in my body, and then when they get shaped, when the brain, the controller, the pilot, whoever one’s metaphor, however this metaphor can extend, takes over. I like to think that my brain is the lesser part of my poems and that my heart, in the best of my poems, is the one that rules.” (web)