Too Much Butter

This poem was written in 1998, I think.

Wherever past compare is…

I was there.

I don’t know what to call

this magical, I try

it butterflies under my eyes.

Just to eat the apple

and leave the fig leaves on the trees,

my eyes open and my hair down to my knees -

I would speak my love in Swedish

and in Cantonese.

Love held the mirror

and I knew I was a fool.

His buttertouch too much to bear.

But oh! to walk handholding,

unspool

into the cool summer night

and sniff the air.

Wherever past compare is

He is there.