Pretend not to love.Pretend air sustains nothing.Pretend because it is easy.
Easy to be among elms at night.To walk among elms at night theirshadows fortresses bending to labyrinth.
There your breath as miststrangely sudden strangely waterlogged.Breath as a bouquet you carry
to the one you love but pretend not to.Pretend because you are weak beenweakened by a past oddly free.
By a past where your glow that glowrendered others blind love luminous.Those blinded mocked in dark glasses.
Mocked without hesitation at your lackof hesitation. This is whom I love. This one.This love is mine even if it isn't. Hear me.
You let them drag you through town.Clothes ripped by rocks.Who knew the blind were vicious? [End Page 145]
So bruised you have remained.Wounds like storms on Jupiterforever hostile. But this hostility
is inside that which you deny.Sky of latticed lightning windwild without wonder pretending. [End Page 146]
Myronn Hardy is the author of two award-winning books of poems: Approaching the Center and The Headless Saints (New Issues P). His third book, Catastrophic Bliss (Bucknell UP), winner of the Griot-Stadler Prize, is forthcoming. He divides his time between New York City and Morocco.