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
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