Perfection is the living presence
Living without sense or essence
Of symbol. Living in present tense,
Control of wavering coincidence
Is not done with metaphor’s lie;
God as lamb is a sham, but not you,
You don’t have to die.
Fate is not straight; love’s tune
Curls like smoke that blurs the moon;
Words are dead, are dead! But love will love you soon.
What is poetry’s body? You’ll find it in June,
In a breath of dust, particles of trust
Once a whole word; but now all around
The great June sun scatters into sound.
All I go through,
I go through for you.
The sly theorist,
Who slyly says we don’t exist,
The cold moon, by the cold sun coldly kissed,
Seminars unknowing, all the meetings I should have missed,
But went to, hoping by a hug to be hugged or kissed,
When all it was, was a blinding mist,
Leaked from symposiums where I learned the gist:
The point, the fact, does not exist.
