Not because of the Mann & Kant of thick ideas
or a pantry taken over with granadillas
not because it was preordained
or you were wholly right-brained
not because I was butter on your toasted bagel
or would be anything more than lowly hummus
not because I kissed in arpeggios
or called you Dollface when the moon was grandiose.
Not because of revolutions I might foment
or my Cuban missile crisis moment
or for how I found your earrings on Monday
in the Bake Crumbs Shop on Broadway
not because I crave abuse
or mistook a simple story for your lifelong muse
not because I had with mysterious past persuaded
or would right even one burning injustice.
Not because of perfect proportions
or Bananas Foster made in copious portions
not because I headlined as leading man
or had perfected your latest passion-play
not because a stranger doubting Emerald Bay
had warned of submerged sorrow
not because papparazzi
would pursue us in East Village coffee bars.
Not because what was lifted or wetted in you
was customary for a missionary
not because my gaze was the most critical
when you sang or played the piano
not because I called it "dappled"
when fading light expired on your face
or because nature had changed its laws
mistook my urges for evolutionary cause.
Not because my urban planning
seen from thirty thousand feet
was destined for greater art --
this paint-by-numbers stick figure man --
but because of tears in the canvas are so wide
& brushes between your fingers so small,
because you loved how I roused
your Carravagio of desire.
November 2011