Memory/A Love Poem

Who among us remembers how to write a love poem? In this, the age of electric courtship, we have become slaves to expediency: shortened words abridge even the lengthiest sentiment. There was a time when the entirety of art was the commission of one's innermost fantasies to paper, when subject and object mingled in public without exhibitionism. In those days, each horseshoe from the village blacksmith was a tiny piece of genius. But now, even pen and ink have fallen into obscurity, like the smithy's anvil and chisels. If I were a blacksmith (replaced by a machine), I would try not to forget the way I used to hoist red-hot iron from the fire, feeling the heat of the forge against my skin like a passionate embrace. And you, the dangerous, beautiful iron, would try not to forget the way I used to bend to your desires.