call it love

the discovery of love

is nanoseconds outside of time.

it takes experience 

as overtures and octaves to process.

convenings and convictions meet

in their passings that occur.

sexuality becomes slurred speech spoken.

touch becomes painting classes taken,

first sensual oils, then relational acrylics,

and finally, watercolor, done with tears.

the art is never saved

but lived alive in the ongoing.

as if for the view, 

is ever the constant,

or not.

to know of love

is the loss of words.

dimensions weep for their fragileness exposed.

even the self,

swimming out of the sea of the self,

is drowning in its own faux-tranquility.

thus to die, 

as if to gain, 

a beyond that has no boundaries,

but is,

a magnetics that seeks no attraction, 

but is,

a worth that has no comparative,

but is,

and a flow that is sourcelessly so,

but is . . .