Crónicas: On perfectionism

I fall in love one person

at a time, one idea

one shiny object that consumes. A book

stringing me by one line, then another:

“North East of Sligo, split by a cascading stream, her body on earth, her feet in water, dwells the microcephalic community of Puckoon."

The way one man sees me

reigniting faith in perfection.

(It exists but it flickers, expiring

like lightning. In the dark,

thunder moves you to trust

what you hear:

It was really there.

You are really here expiring,

renewing. In love with the woman you have

always almost been)