i love thee
  poetry.

whose hands, steadfast,
   catatonic waters past
  end freely in dusk,
  carrying me over
  life's ferocious waters,
if not death.

whose slender body is
  to make love, make fire,
  sinking in a leitmotif of
   seraphs unknowing sepulchers,

  which ails me so in the night
  drunk without stars shall i seek
  the dharma burning in the bone,
   the fanfare of mind berserks
     the thorough ablution of
   the mind's useless wanderings,

  i love thee poetry,
   its rescue, its curse,
  its waysides - i love them all
    nothing but shorter lifelessly,
  a brief night ended in the
    bat of an eye.