Love is falling through
the hole in my pocket
onto the cobbles,
the strangers side step it—
they want none of it,
not even the beggars;
their nothing is better than this something.
I got this love from a merchant,
he had bought it cheap,
and to me, he sold dear.
The merchant shook my hands with the smile of a cheat;
well knowing that even if providence flowed
it’d find its level elsewhere.
Knowing I’d regret learning to love—
for, I was never cruel till I loved.
Its hard to feed infinity into an equation
it’s error to think love as anything but vermin.
It just won’t quit.
For, conscious in love is to be
conscious of your own incompleteness;
the isolation—the boundless solitude—
the granary-full reap of randomness,
the harvest of wilt and blight—
the pregnant emptiness that
pounds like a pulse
unreachable humus of darkness
that claws with invisible fingers
I’d never known despair
Till I learned to love.