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Poem

(for Michael Jackson and Karen Carpenter)

Dear my other one by the Gemini,

Shadows are a planet.
	We live as shadows.
Therefore, we’re a planet. Love,
when striving for stars, it’s what we chose.
Winter charities and harsh summers solve

its problems by fall & spring or enteric
Paul and overcast Penelope. We’re life.
Shadows are life. But all shadows attack
its life source, to seek its meaning’s riff.

But, you leave as a condom or saint,
using this world for your answers, then 
departing to hell’s or heaven’s quadrant.

Planets are love because we don’t know. We send.
We receive. We’re confused, but love. We seek.
We’re questions for answers’ birth, not its end.

Such as we lullaby childhoods’ wisdoms, we weep.
But, we should be shadows and planets,
as lovers---beyond God’s lands---Yes…un-asleep!
   
Why did you desire the omniscient?
Why annul our orbit of many questions?
Paul beheaded and weaving Penelope bent---

not broken. Oh my. Now, guitars are sins.
Violins are no longer constellations, Eve…
Please forgive this Adam’s heart’s terminus.

I dwindle from memories, thinking oversights.
Taking for granted mealtime smells and dance
within our misunderstandings, our blights.

So, I begin as Omega and work backwards.
My coffee swirls as shadows by my spoon’s spin.
The cup is the planet, and I weave forwards

to my life. Beheaded from the past, I leave thin
and thick with grief. This too will pass, here and now.
Shadow is planet; but death does not mean 
good grief. It means goodbye as one can know.

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