All that love can do
No matter how we invent this writing malarky
Or, how, precisely, we feel about it,
There is a wondering within our hearts,
And a hiding between the folds of our soul;
So much more than a mirror
Mumbling at us, incessantly,
"There's a story to be told,"
But all we hear is:
'Fear fear, fear terror, fear anguish'
Untold stories circle within us
As we try to live secretly.
Stories we hoard
And dole out to ourselves
When frightened or bored
As a way to lift us into
A new mode of travel
Lanes and unadopted roads
Leading us to a borderland
Of ruins that we investigate,
At our peril, in our own time:
Poems, novels, plays, opera, ballet, painting:
We bring these back to the multi-storey flats
To help us to see
High windows, yes, but stained too,
Stained, with all that love can do.