6.01.2012

Spit

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
That winsome ideal, the topic of Love
Is a suggestion we feel talkative of
Of its virtues! And of those who lack
We must demand they take it back!
Take back their evils, and all the wrongs
And weep a tear for the clamoring throngs
Who want only your understanding
And of course, every last other thing
For when we speak of love we can't
Help but give it our colorful slant
And forget its history, for it does seem
The very now of it does teem
With the feelings we seek as medicine
And gladly extol that it covers all sin
But its image is blurred as if by rain
Its clarion obscured by resentment's skein
And forgetting it has four at least
Faces as were each living beast
Of man, ox and eagle and lion
And belongs not to Nubia or Albion
And of its demands, can we call it free
It is only as cheap as your poverty
The widow's mite! She knew to buy low
And those who talk how can they know?
Love and death, the inseparable things
Caught like must in a linnet's wings
That you sneeze out and blink and tear
O you who drink! Harken now here
When you sing love you spit out death
It tarries along with the spit in your breath
And sweats out thick from every pore
And does into each listener bore:
If only men loved! You spit with a sigh;
But what have you said but, Why don't you die!?

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