The Problem Is
The problem is that we’ve let it drift.
When you leave Love to the moon-eyed
It will always go wrong in the end.
The ones with mist about their bones
Who let their thoughts drift ahead of the world,
Never know what to do with her.
Details blur and fall away.
We lose the real measure of her.
Things can become forgotten then, important aspects
Are left by the wayside to moulder gracelessly.
She will fade with this kind of neglect,
Relegated to a dim gallery of simple sensations and moods.
Pure like a blow to the gut, lithe and strange and vital.
Glinting out from the blood warmth of skin or the
Animal joy in a smile of recognition.
While she can ease out into other planes
To relish the fine pleasure of the metaphysical
Home is where the world is.
That coarse, skipping thrill.
Gripping tight to all available senses for that
Steely-sure moment of presence
Photograph by Jonathan Kos-ReadHire An Editor