A poet wrote, love makes
people. Does it not also unmake them?
You recall that linguistic riddle
about the not unblack dog and the not
unwhite rabbit running through
a not ungreen field—and how
mathematicians have always said,
remember that two negatives make
a positive. I can tell you
I've made some things out of love
including people, but I cannot
unmake them. I can only conclude
that some words have edges like glass
and that even their silence can be a severing.
But what has anyone said about discernment?
About how it isn't just love that runs
through the grass, marking other
paths for passage?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
