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For M.

I am so in love with a moment
I may call my self today if
I got nothing to do but the mirror
in whom I only music the meanings
in the glamourous black I build so I notice
the stick of lightning you slid in the slot
and see you as the money
your mere presence can sheathe
as we'll cast ourselves in festival terms
though the haze doesn't clear
the celestial speedtrap for which
the walls of sex have no ears
as you find yourself checking to see
if it's a sonnet if the passion
through which actions gaze at polemics
like these can shatter the mood of a name
as meanings and music meet in the melting pot
clutching each other more fiercely than
you and I do in the jalopy of memory
(where the undercover cop searches
for hitchikers, makes what s/he finds
and though we must resist it in love
we cannot do so without being its dupe).