You were once
an agrestal
village,
a vast field
of sentries
now gathered.
A somber,
contiguous
semblance
of order
grace
symmetry.
Your elegance
contained
in that cold,
calculated word
arrangement.
A suitable,
apt,
(but dry)
word for you
-arrangement-
coined
by a capitalist
who merely
sought
to peddle you.
The spanish word
fits you best,
with its
quiet g
arranged beside
the soft h
following
r’s that billow
from the mouth
like clouds
-arreglo-
whispering
the soft composite
you’ve become.
But somehow
you are still
too perfect.
Too ....
premeditated.
Your contours
shaped by her hand
reflect the delicacy
of her mind,
but not
the raw
ferocity
of her spirit.
I want
to free you
from your
immaculate
form.
Cast you
across the floor,
like Modigliani did
with the flowers
that he gave
the poetess
Akhmatova
while she
lay
sleeping,
throwing them
with abandon,
over the wall
of her bedroom
so that
when she woke,
she woke to the
madness that passion
erupts in us -
the
disarranged.
The perfection
of undoing
convinced her
that
each
flower
was placed
on purpose
by his hand
as an arreglo
on the floor.
Not knowing
his abstract heart
burst
beneath the weight
of a formal
declaration,
a violence
erupting
the savage
ache
within.
And so,
I come to you,
-arreglo-
and I see
you speak
formally
of your sequence,
your harmony,
your order,
but
I hear you
cry
for a greater purpose
for dissolution
humility
abasement
the need
to be
ruined
for a love
worthy of
the wildness in you.