Dear Love

Dear Love,

Of all these things, numbers, words, subtexts, riddles, the pieces of parts, ingredients inside particles to atoms, to molecules, to the soft moist tissue we scream from, and of hands turning a brass cinquefoil handle with a whorled spindle through a stuffing nut, sealing a disk to the valve seat. Did you know whole rivers are dammed for the grid of cables, microchips, lights, turbines, pumps, pipes, pistons, wrist pins, connecting rods, cams, springs, belts, chains, pulleys, bolts, shafts, gears to move highly convenient Ferris wheels, or to make use of work, to scribble, to jot down a real value function, where product of its one elemental domain offers a maximum value for the compact set, where oceans of flotsam stencil in swirls of iridescent film coating the quotient of utility's bulkhead, and at the drop of a hat to the needs of our nature, pealing back the rind to tear and taste the sweet flesh, devising a way to the proper fruiting body, as we know all the secrets like centric thoughts to understand gravity's pull to the center or from the fervent awe of televangelical luminescence and sermons prying up the pale wish with a succulent red lobster's chela, or then to grab the reminder at our hips, a buzz or jingle of gadgets, gimmicks and tufts of technological trinkets spreading the glorious network of our land...,but of all these things, from my window I watch something unfurl the blue of the sky, climb the clefts of a cloud's obumbrant billows, drop rain lace in a weave, away, down a heavy wet fall, push through a tailwind of twisted violet columns that clutch golden waves of prairie, lap the weighted heads of Rudbeckia in a dance to the muffled shrill of insect industry. There should be a count of all the hairs of things droplets touch as round worms pulse the bio-cake for air and intumesce from tunnels greeting the fang of the storm, but of all these things, they will hang silent, even the sun will assume the mask of a black dwarf and disassemble in the cold stark stillness of certitude, where protons parade off to each one's decay and the tidal hand of darkness will close upon itself with dense wrinkles and whiskers of things trailing off to cancel out in dimensions unknown, and so time will disappear in a ring of its own, but at the hem of this ring, as if an unexplored sheen runs an inward coil, loosens a circinate frond above the gloom of incomprehensibility and spills out a hyperspherical heaven guiding the interlace of our cheverons up the flaxen mountain slopes of eternity, and if so, of all these things, as pleasant as a Placid Lake or as perspicacious as a Park City or as austere as an Australian Sun or as curious as a Campton, and as far as the wisps of wind and the sands that touch are the paths that slide and swoosh through the glades and glades and glades of it all, there will be one thing, I love you.