Easier, yes, to live for only love,
to write of it, responding to its myths—
as someone would, a myth himself (the trouble
of the psalmist charming Saul, or Orpheus
content to string a lyric line for this)—
but what of how it fails us when we fail
to last as long as love? We have no Christ
to wait for, no remorse to fill the sails
of daily life. Just trust—and so the sea
around us churns, concerned we’ll drown: what now?
What, now that art must steer us, will it be?
And such a flimsy thing to steer—the prow
much heavier than sheer amazement is—
and lessened by true intentions, mild at rest.