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To run with joy,
blind,
watching soft reality focus as it approaches,
fractal patterns appearing and fading
with your footfalls.

To laugh for joy,
no reason,
just a gratefulness for existence,
a sound I'd never heard
before.

To live by touch.
They always did say love was blind.

A black leaf falls, twirling
about an axis perpendicular
to its acceleration.

And I said (jealously), 
it would be good to love the world with passion.

Echoes in the belltower.
The clocks tick single.
You don't want to count on your internal resistance.
Fragments of foreign speech,
overheard and understood.


Love,
pretty,
happy,
they're all only words, right?
What do they mean?

And what will you do, beloved, when we have all gone?
(It is not mine to ask, I know.)

The spirals of knowledge
that are chaotic euphoria,
and the knowledge that is only frustration.
I want to know
(meaning something different, this time),
but what?

I would beat sense into your stubborn misunderstanding
if it did not give me joy,
even so.