Intersection
Link pinkies with me
and take a stroll in Central Park
where we’ll watch the lovers
come and go with strings
around their ankles.
Walking in circles,
Ever-tangled, intersecting
endlessly do lovers and dreamers
run in pinwheels the clichés and
whispers that other lovers and
dreamers have dreamed and loved.
This is the remembrance of
half remembrances. Of
things already said
a thousand times before.
Yet the inconsistencies
and messy bits of string that
bind you and me together paint
their own Monet that
colors of you
colors of me.
The lovers walk in twos with
aligned steps with eyes fixed forward
but we laugh and look upside down
at the intersection of our ankles
and the colors of you.
The colors of me.
We are the creators of modern art.
