Trans-Relational Love Poemby Caroline Crumpacker
The door is designed
for the repetition
The door is ajar. The door is a thought
that will take you,
as a formal convention as a peculiarity of our time,
You are therefor
walking up the stairs
of a clear glass building.
When you reach the fourth floor, enter.
There is my boudoir en pleine aire.
There are my countless abilities
There is the Ottoman Empire
throwing off of the Roman Empire.
So step up.
The architects are playing with your vertigo.
They are playing with your need to be inside.
They are playing with the idea that
one cannot rub one’s shoes
on a work of art.
And everywhere the influence of the far-east:
open to the world even as apart from it.
How many of the senses are invoked?
Does it depend on the architecture
on the parfumerie of the lady of the house.
Perfumes are designed
for the repetition of sensation.
They play with our ideas
Is that the definition for love
that would take you,
in a tower of verbage in story after story
Playing with the order of sensation.
Playing with the sensation
Playing on the glass floors
with my ballet shoes
visible through the quarter.
The peculiarity of home.
A valentine for the invisible:
hovering over the green country is my love playing with the idea of the beloved
the likes of this building: meaning height not dependent on the idea of height
but repeating it in unlikely configurations.
a friendly psychoanalysis of its own powers,
is another definition of love.
Caroline Crumpacker is a poet living in Brooklyn. She is a poetry editor for FENCE magazine.