Cupid's Arrow Lands Out of Bounds

18 July 2002

It’s July and through those stretched bare trees,
Up to the north, slung low, 
The Sun spouts photons in the cold. 

Here on distant Earth, weaned from the Sun
Three million years or more,
The morning-feel is one I like:
Possibilities not yet grown to life.
A novel’s page before it’s written on
And ordained to be a masterpiece or dud.
A sunny girl whose lineaments of character
Are some cartographer’s dream.
I have the gist of her, that’s all:
What’s encrypted in her sap’s known only
To her lissom timber.

The day goes on. The staunchest and least-mentioned
Human curse, of loneliness, worms in.
Ten lean years since dopamine
And norepinephrine span me in their web
And turned the world of sense to the nonsense that it is.