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The physical sport of love
is simple and brief.
The hard act to refine is
sitting around being beautiful.

Devoted service is so tired unlike
neglect which is ageless and vibrant.
See, there is no absolute evil,
but there is plenty of absolute fear.
I am unprepared
when my child asks,
"why have you cursed me
to this life?"
I muster only a shy grin
and ramble some about
dancing and destiny.
The yellow sickle moon
is hay in the barn, the way
that youth is exuberant
and death is wise.
The dogwood is a tree
full of butterflies -
so life strikes,
then death strikes.
In the calendar of life, fall
just a handful of holidays
perfect for the making of love.
My favorite posture is man eating and drinking woman,
but why debate the repertoire of love's manifestations.
Wise, unwise, pure, impure,
love builds up from itself and saves the world,
no mater how selfish nor how sacrificial.
I created you to comfort me,
which work out well.
Until, you asserted yourself
and let me suffer
What is timelessness
        when there is time?
What is formlessness
        when there is form?
Being here, loving your body,
        I can not foresee
                eternities more serene.
I have no need of a perfect life.
But, I do need a love that lasts
        beyond all the burning fire,
        and all the rotting flesh.
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