everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues,
and this is mine:
love is not blindness and his especially
his love was not blindness
he saw everything:
what was there
what wasn’t
nonetheless he rested at reading-glass distance
everything in hyperfocus and bigger, like he wanted
like a futuristic camera: oversaturated, overbright
love is not blindness—
love is literature, or wine, or a lens flare
his filled my gaps with what he wanted there
he saw more than the camera did
I cannot condemn, nor could I ever, his amber propensity
to imagine me. to beg literature is a dodge
of responsibility of which we are all
most equally
guilty
and the devil is in the details
that stitched up such an
achingly different forever
than the one he saw
love is not blindness—
his wasn’t, and mine wasn’t
—but it is literature: permission to fill the page
permission to distrust, like I did then
like I do still
forgive me my own amber propensity
to feel the paradox
there
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues,
and this is mine:
love is not blindness and his especially
his love was not blindness
he saw everything:
what was there
what wasn’t
nonetheless he rested at reading-glass distance
everything in hyperfocus and bigger, like he wanted
like a futuristic camera: oversaturated, overbright
love is not blindness—
love is literature, or wine, or a lens flare
his filled my gaps with what he wanted there
he saw more than the camera did
I cannot condemn, nor could I ever, his amber propensity
to imagine me. to beg literature is a dodge
of responsibility of which we are all
most equally
guilty
and the devil is in the details
that stitched up such an
achingly different forever
than the one he saw
love is not blindness—
his wasn’t, and mine wasn’t
—but it is literature: permission to fill the page
permission to distrust, like I did then
like I do still
forgive me my own amber propensity
to feel the paradox
there