Poetics 1 Poem by Tamir Greenberg

I can't write about love.
I'll write words. Here, I've written:
'Love.' I could become absorbed describing the warmth
in the pores of the skin. In all of them. The pores
in the shoulder's socket. The pores in the lips.
I won't dropp inebriated onto the couch. I'll keep on writing,
but will ignore the much harder syllables, such as 'longing'
which is but a double touch:
The one who has left a burn in the palm, and the deeper one -
its echo resounding in memory. The poem is
the sanctioned lie between a crass desire for clarity
and memory. Correction:
The sanctioned lie between the blood and the imagination.