Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
(Yes I am still on my poetry binge, though I’m transitioning from TS Eliot to Wallace Stevens. It’s so dang nice to pick up old friends and get re-acquainted…and maybe even go back to writing some myself, though it’s been a long, long time…)
