Carpe Diem

by James Kwapisz

Her eyes—
striking and blue
green fine lines
curling in kisses
sinking to the depths
of her cosmic abysses—
her inverse universes
speaking soundless verses
 
reflected in the window
beside the divide: the seat
she wouldn’t sit in
for fear of an unpleasant ride,
the chance of our eyes dancing
not some removed, prudish jig
mother would approve
but a telepathic tango
to dispel the emphatic Nothing—
ah, but the waves that would trill
at our touching
we’ll never know.
 
The wonder in your lap
is certainly of more interest:
the hands tensely clasped
the wriggling of the fingers
the hangnail in need of biting.
 
And yet this is not
what you’re thinking, not
the thought you’re fighting
of the warm, brown eyes, seemingly
inviting, prying at, crying for
dying for your attention.
 
In this reflection
at this angle
we have perfection—
we don’t want truth
we want convenient fictions.
 
Unshroud us of our –isms
shun us for our –tions
let our lofty ideals exhaust:
if we are not We
we are lost.