Bless these miles of marshland where birds hang on craggy trees. Abstinence is not possible without distance. Distance is our birth control. She had no interest in creating another soul. Possessed by the madness of old love, willing to breed like a lesson from a Shakespeare sonnet, I loved the inestimable center of her. There were poems and then I was on it. Love that got too near has the reader involved. You get to read this as I drag it here. Just the right distance from your eyes. Close up, things take on an odd disguise. A poem will be a black blur as she was, when I dove into her. Clarity, art, morality. These need air. It was literally that. Three miles. And then I didn't care.
