Each day, with resolve,nI build all things up,n& each night they are torn downnlike Penelopentearing stitches outnwith the ease & patience of practice.nnThere’s smoke in my dreamsnbut light enough to seenthe object of my affection.nAt my bedside, I praynthe draft won’t blow us awaynto some distant desert or ocean:nnscattered like seedsnon the ground at your feet,n& you’re left with that longingnlike poor Penelope.nThe moaning machines,nthe pollution we breathe...nnWe’re always makin’ love or makin’ war.nnWhen my brother was sick,nhe called me to his siden& said, “Brother of mine,nI’ve trifled my time.nI’ve been swallowed wholenby the apple of my eye,nbut now I see my sin,nso heed this admonition:nn“If God’s been misquoted,njust bid Him repeat,n& if you’re coming undone,nstart a fire in the street,n& burn your possessionsn’till you suppose you’re complete,n& take off your clothesnin arcane ecstasyn’cause life is too shortnto grow roots underneath,nto be stifled in slumbern’neath twisting ivy.nIf you find love, hold on,nbut for wit’s sake grow wingsn& fear only the sun;nfind the balance of things.”nn{It’s} no longer my ownnlike a garment outgrown,na painted ship on a tumultuous sea.nIt’s fickle & fleetingnlike the sun or the seasons...n{Forever} makin’ love or makin’ war.n n n n n