Photo from Bureau of Land Management

So much of our time
is an unequal distribution of feelings

Retrospection commiserates
with retrospection

But we remain mute
And the days come and go

the soul wanting no mouthpiece
to distinguish desire from happiness

We need only hold ourselves
poised—
as waiting is more than withstanding

It is the sanctum

After the evening’s sun has escaped
into the night, its heat and light
still pulsating in the imagination

a tension exists between
intensity and duration

That tension is our religion

Love has a future tense

no matter how lonely
the senses have become