It is important to face the rear of the train as it leaves the republic. Not that all departing is yearning. First love is a factory. We sleep in a bed that had once been a tree. Nothing is forgot. Yet facts, over time, lose their charm, warned a dying Plato. You have to isolate the lies you love. Are we any less photorealistic? I spot in someone's Face- book sonogram a tiny dictum full of syllogisms. One says: all kisses come down to a hole in the skull, toothpaste and gin; therefore your eyes are bull, your mouth is a goal.
Copyright © 2014 by Christopher Salerno. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on March 24, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.