Commission

So poets and philosophers erudite And sensuous, compelled to win or own Probe the anonymity of themselves The strange polarity of self and being ... And bequeathed me a legacy of questions That I have condensed, and condensed Until empty of my own exaltation and pretense I probe desperately: What is it, this feeling, this gift, this thing This suddeness of becoming What is love? How can you not seeing me know me And know me without our meeting? And I am foolish Against the experience of the blind Who may touch And beholding by the fingers tangible grasp Feel the leaping heart and surrender. And of mute men who heard not nor spoke But in the surprise of rapture and rhapsody Froze sterile in the sun. We have no sense impediment So hang out like clothes on a line The interogating argument What is love? And shall I only know by faith The impotence of flesh To which the heart must compensate? I would exult So that man may mortal die And love immortal lives Your consolement forever.