It is harder than the stoned mind imagines
to sink into a landscape
Love has no quantity, is not plentiful or sparse, obtains its own infinity. Drips from my eyes. Reigns from heaven. On hard ground, dry, thirsty for it, unable to absorb, beads, runs off, sluices the same old channels of catastrophe. Splashes over the cheeks. Runs away. The eyes are tender wells, pool with memory, flood at the surge of grief along the aquifers. The fishing’s gone. His Majesty, sorcerously apprenticed, ferries buckets, your parched heart his only subject.