ABOUT LOVING THAT WHICH IS INARTICULATE
Which, in its immobility, its lack
Of any visible support, is unable, or incapable,
Or has no wish whatsoever to love you back.
This should include people (I’ve known some
In that category) not merely the obvious.
Like flowers sitting placidly in a field,
Or a yellow melon with its luscious taste,
Or that Tang Dromedary standing silently,
Aristocratically, on the mantelpiece,
About which you may say “Boy, is that good!”
Without fear of rejection, or “It’s so delicate,
So full of feeling, I really love it.”
Well, that’s the double-edged sword,
The two-way street, without which not
You are somewhat less than human.
For that is the fuel, the input of consciousness
Which fills the tank and feeds one’s being
With a sense that most anything is possible.
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