1. THE TIME OF DAY HAS NOTHING The time of day has nothing to do with troth. Changes of light affect no bond. My plight is here, I waive all distances. Do not speak to me of ratios. Love is a word I learned to spell absolute.m Death being incidental, I choose to pass death by. In the end we touch at the origin of our circle. My robes of evening are the same as my robes of morning.
2. THE MORE . . . The more of my years accrue the more I wonder at what once happened in particular: at life left to be found -- and I the finder. Now tendril smoke is all. The months were tinder. Yet tendril smoke is all. The months were tinder. YEt memory grows a seed, a stem of fire. The more my years accrue the more I wonder whether to trust the casual reminder: samara, minaret mosses, Kernel star. Was life left to be found -- and I the finder by chance? Or did some recent dream engender former renown, to fill this needy hour? The more my years accrue the more I wonder at keeping you in mind. Time may be tneder with truth. The past, at least, is not secure. Was life left to be found -- and I the finder the fabulist of you, your pure inventor? And was I your invention: simple, mere? The more my years accrue the more I wonder at life left to be found -- and love the finder.
3. HALF-REDEEMED . . . Deeply loved is but half-redeemed. To be wholly saved, a seed is summoned into that dark fundament, so dim, so feared, the grain breaks from kernel-dream, starts a first leaf, grows riven out of love as though leaving behind the acclaim of ground.