a road, at night, cold

i have a lover,
mutable in her dress
and bra, sitting
there with the
countenance of
the goddess of chance,
fate and fortune.

my lovely
tyche, she weeps
and then smiles
and goes back to
weeping, while
outside there is
something moving.

i would have her
held while holding
her; have her
loved while
loving her; have her
sung to while i
sing alone.

we met at the light
that cut the path
of darkness, caught
each other on an
intersecting plane;
a slice to the hands
and we bled together.

i am in her, as
much as she is in me.
our chambers are
guilty with it: this
passion of the deep
and willing limitations
of the flesh.

yet there is more.
always more; and
when you love a soul
you say to the rest
of the world that no
one thing can undo
the mystic's work.

she is in her winter
now; the dream-state
that calls for the
long-coming resurrection
so long as
i let the beauty lie
and not disturb the soil.

the Mother has taken
her in again, like every
year, and i stand alone,
waiting for the enslavement
to end so that i can
dance in her fields
soon.

i stand on a road, at
night, my feet
frozen to ghosts and
thoughts that won't
have leave of me, so
i must talk to myself
aloud, shaking.

the sky at night is
a friend of this type
of pass over, when
a man is yelling at
himself, at the woods,
at the unsolvable
sentence he's been given.

why must i push against
the evolution of lovers
when i accept the passing
of seasons? they are no
different, really. a violent
circle that rotates in
the womb of the Mother.

i have a lover,
mutable in her dress
and bra, sitting
there with the
countenance of
the goddess of chance,
fate and fortune.

my lovely
tyche, she laughs
and then sighs
and goes back to
laughing, while
outside there is
something moving.

cast my body into
the best of this night;
broaden my eyes to
let it fall upon me;
feel the presence of
god in the spark that
glows in her bosom

as she lies there,
buried in the Mother,
resting and curled
up, waiting for the
rise; accepting her
evolution, waiting for
the indisputable.

while this man stands
in his cold feet and
yells at the stars and
tells himself that all
good things loved are
best felt when loved things
are left to love.