Poem of the Week

I’ve heard the phrase between you

and me too many times to believe

it to be true, but between me and you

there was Cocteau, wagging his testimonial

finger, as usual, while flat out on the floor

with my arms in receipt of the flower

of thought, palms upwards, I envisaged

the inside eyes of his hands remaking words

for a song that is a drawing that is a film —

that is, a poem; and in the middle of all this

the books on the shelves float down while

falling upwards, slipping out of their jackets

as the naked petals of their pages turn

into mirrors, which is to say, they blossom.