Three Hours

I imagined I was in love with you the other day,
thought of the long hollow of your pride,
the industry of your words that make order
as black birds—like a temple against the sky—
return the ground in cold winter
when in your eye
they scatter.

My whole body gave in to the fantasy,
was it a fantasy, it was something lasting lets say
three full hours.

What would I be in your lair?

That is the way love is,
an imagining of the self
next to-against-over-and again
that sweet other.

I cannot (recoil) any other way (imagine)
love
but as that through which I become—
and against which I inevitably implode.