there was that time
you made me watch pierrot le fou
even though reading a movie requires excessive energy
but great love always murders its victims
and that was the first time i realized you were mad.
then you dived into the lake
to salvage soggy remnants of a letter
because they are not black on white,
but momentous fragments of a memory.
white clouds with faint whispers of their last form.
and your crazy bursts a flame, beautiful,
sets fire to the rows of wooden houses down the block
burns teacups in oven fires,
maybe i am too close
or- am i close enough
