A loose, imagined love—I wasn't mad
at her or anything, the turning stars
were love. I have supposed a fictive madness
that makes language of the illumined stars
in patterns, rational music that's working
in synthesis. The light of a white star
took so long to get here, I want my work
to be the ornament written above
the outer sphere. I'm not the one at work
here, not the lone actor moving above
her open body—I am surely mad
to think my self or anything above
her beauty. I make up a whirling madness
realizing love is designed mad.
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