There is no word for what I love in you, but it is sure, sacred and daily as bread. I speak by indirections of a world divisible as loaves among ourselves and multiplied like miracles because we share the private tables of the mind. We join in rites and sacraments that bind
and keep us bound like vows when we face God or Plato over coffee, books, and smoke. Discovering the truth we always knew, we look in one another’s eyes surprised and reconciled to what we shall recall five years from now reclining on a plane, exchanging socks, surrendering to pain,
dying, or saddleblocked before a birth. Today it is enough that we rehearse for nothing but today and everything abreast of us impatient to be known. If we profess no more but nothing less, let us be tame as eagles, mad as saints, or casual as Job in his complaints
until we learn the liturgies that sound their psalms this second in the minstrel blood alive from Solomon through Charlemagne to Huckleberry’s scuttlebutt to you. Let us dare life as lovers dare the dark and learn less stubbornly than blinded Saul that light comes from within or not at all.