to accept our nameable days,
   the plenitude of them,
  means we are to be forgotten;

to come in flesh with
    our words and clothe us with
      them, will mean that soon,
  eyes shall, through malleability,
      unsheathe us all
    to our impurities.

a gaping orifice is in the seascape
   singing elaborate music,
  and to gyrate to this
will mean that there is a hand to
   hold until the songs fade
   to their closing.

to become love means to be aware
   of what our hands can do,
   what our bodies can flinchingly
  shut with their capacity to
   mend distances,
    what amount of words could
  hurt, what silence could scar
    and what nuisance could
  stir mundane abstractions,
and to become presence
    means to embrace our departures, why a thing ceases to
  stay is a question in the pristine void and beats back with a voiceless answer: love, and its
   telltale askance!

  to become and simply be,
   coming to be and ceasing to be,
what to make out of it,
  that in the flesh and the indelible mark of loving,
  its rampant depictions are all
     but ash.