There's a larger figure
Looking over this,
Who I know
As my singularity
At moments
Like these
When the horizon
Is the color before death ...
The last
Casualty,
An Objective God,
Which may be the last
Of our innocence,
For which we are
Everlastingly grateful
That we have the strength
For future tests
To love.
It's all that is,
How could there be
Not Love
Only
Against it?
The perfect flex
On the other side
Like male surf
To female shore,
The power to cultivate love
As love discovers
Absence
(Having prepared for it with love)
And loves what it sees,
Changing it
From love to love.
O Sky Above,
The next highest frequency
Of love,
Receives the love
In the unconditionality
To which all objects glide,
To the decision of tolerance,
To let it all go, all the misguided
Suffering done
In love's call,
Pure, real love.
A moon above,
Where the old computer
Spits out its algorithms
To simplify love to lovelessness;
They entertain us
At lunar command
With their pose
Of the False as the True --
That's funny
To us who
Approve
Of misfortune bestowed
On others,
This lighter fluid breeze just now,
And the innocent pride
Of laughter
At having secured
Subjection,
For example,
It's just that opposite, against
Again,
Another unguarded spot
Of darkness
For love curious
Love.
Because Phoebe exists
Somewhere,
You'll find her,
You are her
From when you were
Another,
You know her
And have for all
Eternity
And can freely
Project, as fact, what you believe
Only,
In a Phoebe,
In fact.
