The Test

All ways are better to talk more honestly of love
than the act itself, which, yes, is love I guess

but, then is always something else as well,
since I am thinking of your scare (we

think) and whatever love is, it shouldn’t be this obsessive
worry. Or actually, love is

fret, since that’s the music-making
bump of a guitar. You know by now we are callous

and cacophony, our minds
and bodies are at once

belief, and sublime,
subliminal, and liminal

too, and you laugh which shatters a glass
in me, (I wanted you

to laugh) and I managed the silence, I know, I know,
I am hardly making sense, but I am trying

actually to break an uncertain ice: notice, the light playing games

with the wall beside my bed the night I realize I cannot have you
leave, and while I am ever a series of periods,

you are not. A pyramid

between us, a great wonder
that says something about permanence

to us now, and how, when we might finally have it, we shed
our skins and flee. The problem is in saying forever

at exactly the same time. On three:
this is us trying. You called it karma, you said

this is what we get for cheating. Maybe.
But autumn hasn’t robbed us of spring.

We are changed. And remember where we are.
Everything the world is not might also be a blessing.

By Keith S. Wilson

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