We love. But love not only as our selves.
The words we speak others have said before
who loved as much, or maybe even more.
So many books randomly piled on shelves
that teeter in the corners of my mind
all book-marked, dog-eared. I have searched them through
to find the perfect lines to write to you.
The fluttering archer god is wholly blind
so that he does not read. The perfect shot
he makes pierces the centre of each heart
and it’s his archery and not his art
that strikes where love should go, ignores where not.
Poets are never silent. It’s our curse
never to love in stillness, always verse.