The Transience of Experience

What is my conception of love? Now that I let me straw hat rest On the rocks of Moses’ teachings Now that I behold robins pick my seeds What is my conception of love? Love is an old cotton Djellaba I wear early sometime in December When Goethe’s muse rambles alone The deserted Georgian streets of Borjomi Eliza found a perennial Canadian love Probably in the wings of a broken dove She tends to it by late May rosewater Sadly, she shuns the idea of a second abandonment You know that I know that nothing remains the same Not even my grandmother’s sesame candies Let me just sip alone those cups of rusty mirage My brown Turkish beret shall rest alone On the broken trim of a shaded window Overlooking a battered copy of Truth and Method