Carrier pigeons

2017-03-25 11.14.02

I met a Sicilian, his name is
Diego.
We became friends, and so sweet he
was,
I said, No! Because I have poetic
licence.
Because I have, at least to me, some
degree
of authority on the English language.
Because
I care, and I just cannot say, I like you, I say
things
like, I am changing all the letter i’s in the
world
and I am starting with the one in your
name,
Dyego. I wrote a poem of him called
Dyes,
and put it on my website, because in the
frenzy
of spring, in the yellow eye of the
daffodil
looking back at me all cock-eyed, I
fell,
free fell, in to the lap of love
again,
being eaten, alive. Dyego went to
Tuscany,
and so I am preparing the Sunday
birds,
to send to him, because for Christos in
Spring,
and in every season, there will be no
love
with this huge slab of distance between
him.

And it hurts with every heartbeat.

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