it is just:
  an utter illusion
  to a no heart's control,
  reckless without form.
  weighing us down to
  a clenched fist's nothingness,
  and then comes to tremble
  everything that it announces.
  the wind breaking loose
  in love's captivity
  and its faltered exactitudes -
  all of us,
  blown ceaselessly away
  by the same wind of it,
  that pulls us back,
  scaling us to
  love's nakedness.