The gift of paper

by Christos Polydorou

I brought you fine wine,
and long stem roses,

the fallen feathers of birds divine,
and the gloss of puppies’ noses.

I recited poetry books,
and books about poems,

since you adored cultural criticism,
in all aesthetic visibilities and intellectual atmospheres.

Often I even wrote limpid poems for you,
and about you,

to you,
and some behind your back.

Some of them rhymed sublimely,
some dance to a free verse track,

others fell too obliquely,
while some just took me back to black.

There was always a bigger you,
on the page

than there was
in real person. The memory

of you
is so much more beloved to me

the you, attempting

(as we all)
to seem like a normal person.