Love sonnets
Love is just faith lost,
its backward-facing diode,
allowing time to enter in
but only after it's been stopped.
Love is faith denied,
already having tried to
hammer time, like gold, so thin,
unsuccessfully transform to wire.
But love can be faith taken up
in accumulated piles,
with all of time's capacitance
hold in wicked bursts the young.
--
Our inner raising of a weight
involves no string or pulley, rather
levers concentrically placed
according to our private shepherds
who carve along their property lines
irrigation schemes and charts,
sorting flocks as to their hides
and fields as to their yards.
Our paradox is then twice over,
once for our shepherds’ duty:
Where do we measure from? and then for both herds:
How do we bring them to drink, and duly.
--
Would Truth in full sent
-ences so dissolve the
freedom to be who you meant,
meaning solute?
"Meaning" meant strictly, however, precisely,
maybe giving up some of its range:
What may have meant tidy
forms for yourself form now stab-
le reactions in bulk,
dampened to keep from explosion,
and Truth which torn up by its trunk
has been mulched, keeping us from unknowing.