Her demands grow more fierce:
Dysfunction in the fingers,
Too much dust,
Too many flies mating
In the waste we've left,
Too much lack
Of perfection,
Seemingly the natural state
Somewhere else --
Not the compost pile here,
The great recycle redeemer,
Where nothing ever shows
But lack of love,
The better to get
Love delivered
In response,
A way of learning what it is,
Love, the great unknown,
The thing that brings us,
The force that is us
Somehow
In every indivisible cell,
Autonomous, distinguishable,
Alone but inextricably
Of the whole,
Love, the source,
The ordinary place,
How all things of this reign
Fall away to its ceaseless wind.
