Let’s imagine that what we do matters –
that from the spatters of the blast
of that great cosmic blunderbuss
from which we are supposed to have
derived, something has jived like jazz
in us to vindicate the vast ballooning
of our Being. Let’s say that seeing this
depends on grasping that strange
sweet ephemeral condition we call love.
Let’s say that love is an illusion we’ve
invented to reflect the whole, inspectthe soul, resourcefully effect a goal.