This is not

This is not

This is not a computer.
This is
a mullioned window finally flung o-
-pen,
its fleur de lis latch having grown arthritic-swollen
with generations of paint; this is
a porthole portal that Jan Van Eyck-like reflects back
my refracted, at times pixelated Moet-Monet twin –
so far less auspicious than either master’s work
for Messenger only mirrors this fiftyish face;
this is
Ghiberti’s Florentine door –
a gold-bronze renaissance –
for haven’t you brought about a rebirth, in me?
One not simply gilded by gelded distance
and yin-yang time. And though the way seems barred –
there being a flame-spiked fence, yet I can Rose Tyler, too.

No.
This is not a computer.
this is
my Veronese balcony, my Pyramus and Thisbe chink,
my letters from Cyrano to Roxane, my Anwnn… Mag Mell… Stoppard’s Arcadia – the threshold

to you,
my Love.