love is a thing you see to the end

no break - up or down,

powered from the pit of the ass,

knotted firm in the gut,

shot to the base of the throat,

and thrown against the wind like a song,

and every molecule is for reaching you,

reaching me, reaching through,

and the tremors dancing,

screaming blue,

love is a thing which carries its end,

like the weight of ginsberg’s world,

and the wave my father rides.

love is a vein that wants to burn again,

weary, on her road to the heart.