You think you must have known once how to do it
but you cannot for the life of you remember how –
literally for the life of you, were it to come to that,
you could not save the thing if what you had to do
to save it were to bring about romantic love:
to conjure up whatever ardor may define the heart
of it, sustain it into living being with another being.
You cannot hang your soul upon the hook of thinking
it’s a matter of discovering a lover: or of the sort
of blinking glorious extinction of the mind you could
effect through certain sorts of blindness long ago:
you’re in a different show. Oh, you know blood
and glow – and even maybe love of some strange
species: but whatever the organic apparatus
of you is, it isn’t interested in leaping or in weeping
or in fleeing. It’s mainly interested in seeing.
.
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