those twigs which stoked my fire, burnt down, to twine, with which I tied our love
and your usefulness began at once, to feel ushered and pragmatic
I went to you
first
because I could not steady my entanglement
but your oar
bore like a blade
through my insistent heart
we are mourning
can't you see that?
this thread
no longer holds our warmth
from the boat
I drift
my own anchor
to love
addictive
you spill oil
over the edge
and I am swimming
in separation
but
I love you
no matter where your eyes look
your pen retorts
but
I only hear
that you can't come
when I call
but
Lover,
my patience
is borne of God
my pretend abandonment
can be pawned
from the sobbing
the shaking
exerts
a freedom from paralysis
God has dragged me
to the center
of my love letter
He has put in my hand
a wet cloth
and He has pushed the whole of us
across those fine bedouin letters
until
they did not exist
She said to me
"this is not love"
and I wonder what is
I point to you
He says, " that is not love"
I want to protest
but
in Her hand
are all the letters, and all the lovers
and I feel nothing
I am at a loss
what is love?
I do not know
"There!" He says
"There, in that thought, is the cracking open of the heart!"
The cracking open of the heart?
I do not know is the cracking open of the heart?
"Yes," She says.
"In the I don't know is the edge of the I Am"
I let the letters burn in the loss of our love
the cold wood consumes those words
I let the humor of all my cravings
spit you out
and I vacate
myself
silence
is what is left
a silence
which knows
nothing
a crevice
in the noisy art
ah!
the best day of my life!
Your Beloved
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