Donít Look Now
Donít look in the crowded cities of the coastal bore for
love is apprehensive, avoids easy entanglements, prefers
to remain in each of the seven villages of solitude,
appears for only the briefest moment, occasionally, but
not necessarily, obvious.
Donít look in the high country beyond the central spine
for love is never foolish, sometimes insanely bizarre,
often flattens against the bracken of a purple moor,
Donít look in the unpainted desert of the western quarter
for love carries no water, needs to cool his longings with
hopeless wonder, sidesteps quicker than a moonbeamís
shadow at high noon, decoding pure delight for amused
Donít look across the widest prairies of the fertile
midsection for love abhors undistinguishment, oblivious
to flagrant rosins floating in stifling conditions,
heedless of hankering needs, incongruous.
Donít look along the shores of the serpentine river
snaking from north to south on a speculative whimsy,
harnessing no excuses, flowing indefatigably toward
the lost sea, for love has his private salt, cures desire into
jerky strips, proffers himself to a lucky few, inevitable.
Donít look in the redwood forests of the rockiest regions
where snow-covered aspirations stand tall among
unfulfilled longings, for love has already anticipated
your blind gropings, now lies in ambush with a quiver of
extreme countermeasures, laughs quietly.
Donít look now but your trail-wrecked body, after years
of false wanderings, is now in Loveís arrowsight,
crosshaired and helpless; ironically, love has been
assiduously hunting you.
Donít look back.