This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


What is time
but a way to tell each breath apart,
a means light has made to make itself seem
separate so that we can warn each other:
do not walk towards real love,
for it is only ruin which resides here.

What is truth
but how we breathe bent back on itself,
the branches of your lungs longing
to leap from the mountainside
or just lie down in utter submission
after tracing through this tree
the thread by which God hangs.

What is trust
but truth ticking off the times
one has transgressed and been spared trial,
pretending to forget the fullness
in which we find ourselves looking,
fighting for just a little longer,
and forging falsehood as if we were not
forever breathing complete benediction.



In the tavern