Old Valentine

If there is a dance we could all sing
it is that ethereal thread of love:
the obsession of every heartstring and chord,
the gravity of the dense human mind it pulses through:

Every morning, choking on the bile of anxiety
to find you, curled into your hot den
whimpering with me, tired with me,
shivering with me, fucking me with your mind
and I in return fucking you with mine,
to see you, the stress coming off you in sweat,
the porcelain and curved lines, your physics,
your space-time curved into a glass form.


Now the temple has shattered,
the windows like molten ice
in the river crashing against the cold stones
as the buddhists chant in rising tones
that the music is merging,
that the strings converge,
that the forms, the shapes of our egos have fallen away
into the perfect den,
into the melted glass of human bliss!