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      March 23, 2014The Play of LoversColette Inez

      Pears soft to the thumb, wine.
      Now the sun is the moon, each
      look a new word, phrases to arrange
      like roses in a vase.
      Lovers. Everyone has seen them fall
      into a blur of change; one leaf
      and then another on the lawn. Shade
      gives way to light. Snow comes down.
      Do you see them, two figures
      in the distance making their small mark?
      Words, too, submit to years. Plain
      flowers in the yard repeat their trick
      of vanishing. The sun is the sun
      and each look is seen again and again
      until faces disappear.
      Everyone has seen it.

      from #20 - Winter 2003

      Colette Inez

      “A poem is born right here, somewhere in my heart, in my blood vessels, in my gut. It comes to the brain much later. I have to feel them actually pulsing in my body, and then when they get shaped, when the brain, the controller, the pilot, whoever one’s metaphor, however this metaphor can extend, takes over. I like to think that my brain is the lesser part of my poems and that my heart, in the best of my poems, is the one that rules.”

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