What are the elements in elemental love?
Why do we cry when we encounter it? Is its anguish
biological? Or are we cowed by some neurotic terror
that we’ve lost it, lack the stuff – ergo, will snuff our
fragile species? Is it Penelope’s fidelity to absentee
Ulysses, and quite another business in the heart?
Is it immersed in the unconscious art of nursing
at a mother’s breast? The only way I’ve felt it is, I cry
when I encounter it. Is that the test? Perhaps that’s
more about my urge to cry than any revelation of what
my supply of love is, whatever kinds of it there are.
Some loves exult in moon and star. Some are afflictions
of the flesh, red hot and blue. I think that’s what
I had with you. But where’s its spirit, what’s its letter?
Would I understand it better if I were in love?
Too late and lame, I think, for that. Did Casey ever
play the game? Did I? They say we did. But who are
they? Maybe they lied. Did we ever swing the bat?
.
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