Our love seems to live outside us beyond us it lives freely in the world amassing in cloud in that cinereal terrain of temper and terror in cumulus heaps of ashen ravine and mountain trembles in twelve tones in music that hangs from the skies, in the voice’s seductive sting glistens in the amaranth sunrise enamors the hollow gulls who struggle and flirt with wind shrieking in joy it shivers in the body’s spine when the suspension resolves concentrates in petal and leaf, brimming with water and sweetness wafts in the ecstasy of jasmine clusters in caves calls to us in the black sweat of night sings in the sobbing of the sea tossing its winds and waters with passion, with endless craving it concentrates in us for a moment like a visitor, a perched and restless sparrow it belongs to us and also does not we do not cage it in our bodies, in our jails of bones and skin it is wild it starts out specific to my person, my love for the particular for one being – a man, a boy for a distinction of shape, of color, a viscosity of voice but unleashes itself into air wafting, soaring, convulsing in rapture and encompasses all creatures swallowing them in its euphoria in its rhapsody of earth Will it keep on living without me when my body returns to dust?
Maybe love is always there it is the world’s love, the condensed love of billions of beings gliding, hovering, drifting, bursting, buzzing a pulsing rainbow a shimmering spirit and we only briefly open to it
peeking at it narrowly
only glimpsing a sliver
of its magnificence.
