love was once thought to be
a source

of greatness. perhaps for example,
it moves you like

a religious rapture
of spirit and matter fused.
true and beautiful

like an abstract landscape
you long to hold it..

often there is a crescent moon
silvering the wilderness dark

not enough light to see by, but enough
for a beauty that is ancient and new,

straddling humanity's years.

if we could only behold it, it might last--
but the world is degenerating
macularly, kindness is dimming,

and we are lifting the hem of some final,
critical, intolerant morning.
you do remember when i said
that in the book of lost entries
nothing is sacred but the crossed out things
forgotten on the haunted page
in the unforgiving dark of ink