poetry

An odd reality / Making love

It’s odd when love conquers all – not to gather

together but to spread out

our certainties: not to jealousy guard

a control over other but lead both the other

and one’s self by the long thin white hands of

kindness and love: oh, how I love to be touched,

I do.

 

I love the hug of odd reality, too: an embrace so

gentle and wondrous in its entity: where

those – around and about – do roundabouting

roads, and ways of winding

paths and forking junctions, and

fucking junctions that provide that

pleasure which we who do not gain a

leisurely stretch of agile body and passionate

soul and the rolling of sex like drugs of decades

way long past, find it so hard to

unharden our perspectives in time; find it

so hard to see that life is neither

truth nor untruth: for life does vary from

moment to curious moment: the reality may

become an entity which

becomes us all, or may quite sadly undermine

our [be]coming together, as fear of

what the next moment brings makes it

impossible to make love.

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