Why ought I write so long
when the word Spirit brings me are few?
So scarce whenever I ask
So much when I could not care less
And how, do you imagine?
How do I care less about love?
Love itself, the very foundation
of my existential affections
I love as much as I am mortal
Love itself holds hands with her
her, the Reaper. Her, the beautiful.
I look at them both through the coffeehouse window.
I shout in an empty hall
the hollow abyss of a space I hope is mine to fill.
As the fates had promised
as my destiny
Right now is no plain letters to myself—
I long to write to her in the tongue of spring,
her heart beyond the seas
Somewhere in the empty hall
I feel a faint magnet
from that Spring, I see because of Spring
the voice of winter I long to hear
from fall to fall to fall to Fall
In the summer of shared celebrations
