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Poem

Love will always
mark itself out in the local of our eye,
but
our local is a lie. 

our love has crossed oceans,
bent the bend of a horizon
thousands of times over
the head we have of it.

our local is our meaning,
our value held to dear;
a self set in begining
short of wanting change be near.

and love is not close.
a love eludes what 'is',
but determined we find
we may still set its pose.

make love a local image;
fencing that writhe  
to gardended time
and pardon sudden changes
to a nature undivine. 

to mistake love's hold
for that which we control,
is to kill the swan and count
it's feathers and proclaim
in agony:

THIS IS THE LAST SWAN,
PURE AND WHITE!

'and forget to mention'

DEAD FOR ME TO SEE!

so

be weak in love and wish its death.
those prone to hold and own,
will always grasp at breath
and find shadows in their home.

Love like this will always burn,
will always make habit of it's beauty,
and will happen again and again,
for as long as we love.

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