Trans-Relational Love Poem

The door is designed for the repetition
of words.

The door is ajar. The door is a thought

that will take you,

as a formal convention
as a peculiarity of our time,

in.

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
repeated.
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

or

on the parfumerie of the lady of the house.

Perfumes are designed for the repetition of sensation.
They play with our ideas
about love.

Is that the definition for love

that would take you,

in a tower of verbage
in story after story

furthest?

Playing with the order of sensation. Playing with the sensation
vof order.
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.

Meaning

a friendly psychoanalysis
         of its own powers,

is
another definition of love.

Contributor

Caroline Crumpacker

Caroline Crumpacker is a poet living in Brooklyn. She is a poetry editor for FENCE magazine.

ADVERTISEMENTS