Beloved moves words through me as if I
Were a soft book; I live and I'm a language
Evolving and reiterating, then
Dissolving in a diffuse decadence.
I'm written in the mind which is the world
Which is my self which is a movement of
A love that is without a language and
Without a bound in its resplendent reading.
To comprehend a fraction of what is
The wealth of her, to taste a nectar where
You are no longer self--no me nor I--
But empty as the air before a music,
Is the true work my verse has its object
And worth the toil of a thousand Suns.
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