Towards A Theory of Love

Perhaps it’s like the rain, or sun, or snow,
or fog – a sort of meteorologically
unavoidable experience of doggedly

determined soul: a kind of certainty that
changes scenery and fills each hole – makes
itself as indispensible as air. But now I look

and nothing quite like that is there. Or rather,
now I feel, and what I can discern is real
is something more elusive than a propagating

atmosphere. The darkest curvatures
of night retain a seed of some full panoply:
ready always to delight in germinating, in

inevitably bright recurring light – beckoning
to anything that whirls – abounds –
disturbs. Few nouns – innumerable verbs.


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