Friday, June 16, 2017

OMNIA VINCIT AMOR

The way I figure it—the conquerors
had it backwards

all along—true love
has never

made anything happen.
Love does not

do work,
it takes credit.

It's the frozen
lustrous moon; not the

incandescent sun.
Love doesn't

permit or divulge; in practice
the real thing

is more like
a withholding of apathy,

of prejudice,
of revenge.

Only,
lazier than that—it's

never cleared
a forest

of formidable oak trees;
it's more like

the little wind
that likes to go out

gossiping in the
brambly coppices after.

It isn't industrious, it's
the bliss-

fully
indiscriminate consumer.

You
and I (and everyone)

can feel it sometimes
sloshing around

inside us; but
it can't make

us feel any fuller,
it utterly refuses

to conquer, And it's certainly
never ever

made—a Subaru
a Subaru.

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