Poem: Ars Poetica/Voir Dire

VOIR DIRE (Originally titled "ARS POETICA")

You asked me if I am in love, as if it wasn't a metaphor.
I've never found the door of love or touched its ceiling,
never walked or ridden or flown over a line of love,
a longitude, latitude or bridge to a country of love where
I changed my money for the more or less precious money
of love, stayed in a hotel of love, carried buckets of ice
down its halls or stolen the soap of love. Neither have I
walked the streets of love, poor or hunted, slept in a park
or cemetery of love, and sold my blood or wristwatch
to a thief of love for a passport out. You must start again.
You must go back to before the words left you, to when
they still met in secret behind the theater of your mouth
or in one of the many closets of your mind. You must
walk on bones, through jungles of hair. You must make
a drum, a necklace of teeth. Here I'm your lost balloonist.
I'm a doctor come to vaccinate your village against
visitors. I'm King of the Monkeys and you're trespassing;
I'll ask the questions.