This picture’s not a pipe.
That actor’s not a king.
Shadows aren’t anything.
Wax fruit is never ripe,
no matter how well made
or how hungry the sculptor.
It can’t be peeled or pulped or
turned to lemonade.
I’m sorry to inform you:
even the steamiest scene
on the most glowing screen
won’t substantively warm you.
All that I scrawl across
this treacherous blank space
fails to be your sweet face.
This is not a loss.