Now that I can almost touch you,
All of us sitting on a sea
Of electronic communication
In our lonely boats, I realize how we love
Is everything, not who we love.
The adulterer is tender
To his mistress, not because
Of who she is; he doesn’t love
His wife, and this is how he loves:
He hates his wife; how is this love?
His hate is what the mistress feels as love.
Two ideas came together at once;
The truth flashed upon me: how it is done,
Not her, not you, not the person.
The whole, sorry, truth of love could be a word
Electronically sent—do you think that’s absurd?