SurVision Magazine / Sean Lynch

Knowing Love Through Neruda

Pablo taught me how to listen
to the river in my heart.

And now I want to feel
the oaken texture of your fears.

I first kissed you in the alley outside the bar
under the hidden moon and you smiled.

Roam free through me like water.
Breathe your vision into me.

Let your liquid teeth
bite into my amorphous skin.

I don't know you.
I just know love.

And I see love
within you.

[If ghosts are just memories projected]

If ghosts are just memories projected
by minds overstimulated with love
then you must be living smoke injected
directly into my blue veins. You move
through me quicker than a river in spring
when ice melts in mountains and water bursts
forth with force forgotten for years, you bring
life-sustaining liquid quenching my thirst.
You are a daughter of glaciers, night
filled woman, a singularity, small
yet bearing the infinite. I am light
which cannot escape from your gaze. I fall
into you. Stretch myself beyond known space.
I'm immortal with one look at your face.

Sean Lynch is a poet and editor who lives in South Philadelphia. His fourth chapbook, On Violence, was published by Radical Paper Press in 2019. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in journals such as Hobart, Poetry Quarterly, and After the Pause. He's the Managing Editor for Thirty West Publishing and hosts the Moonstone Poetry Reading Series.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Seven SEAN LYNCH Knowing Love Through Neruda Pablo taught me how to listen to the river in my heart. And now I want to feel the oaken texture of your fears. I first kissed you in the alley outside the bar under the hidden moon and you smiled. Roam free through me like water. Breathe your vision into me. Let your liquid teeth bite into my amorphous skin. I don't know you. I just know love. And I see love within you. [If ghosts are just memories projected] If ghosts are just memories projected by minds overstimulated with love then you must be living smoke injected directly into my blue veins. You move through me quicker than a river in spring when ice melts in mountains and water bursts forth with force forgotten for years, you bring life-sustaining liquid quenching my thirst. You are a daughter of glaciers, night filled woman, a singularity, small yet bearing the infinite. I am light which cannot escape from your gaze. I fall into you. Stretch myself beyond known space. I'm immortal with one look at your face. Sean Lynch is a poet and editor who lives in South Philadelphia. His fourth chapbook, On Violence, was published by Radical Paper Press in 2019. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in journals such as Hobart, Poetry Quarterly, and After the Pause. He's the Managing Editor for Thirty West Publishing and hosts the Moonstone Poetry Reading Series.
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