Take This

Ordinary love is always 

Murder, cold and final--

That, after all,

Is what makes it ordinary.

Sometimes the murder is sudden,

Sometimes it is a more protracted affair,

But the ending is always the same:

In love we barter our rapture

For fear,

Our laughter for boredom,

Our interest for irritation

And a weird stiffening

Of the limbs--

A peculiar kind of murder,

But murder nonetheless,

Though the killer is invisible,

Living as he does within us, 

An exiled emperor,

Infecting his lost kingdom with the stink

Of his bitterness.

But listen:

Perhaps if we are terribly careful,

You and I,

And terribly kind,

And terribly true,

We might steal across this

Awful battlefield together,

And reach the far side with only

A lost limb or a missing eye.

We shall not be left unmarked, to be sure,

(We are not Achilles, after all),

But perhaps at last 

We could find our way

Into a new sort of love,

Which may one day die,

But not by murder,

Not amid the stink of hate.

Let us come, then,

Into each other's lives, 

But not as boors tumbling 

Through the doors of an alehouse,

Nor as prospectors

Eying a new acquisition;

But as shy strangers

Shyly meeting in the depths of the rose garden,

Meeting fleetingly by moonlight,

Beside a hidden stream,

Meeting as ones frightened

In a night full of wonder,

Meeting gratefully

Beneath a sky full of secrets.

If you want to love me,

Then reach inside

And love if you can the one you have here,

For I assure you, 

He is me;

If you want to know me

Then reach inside

And take if you can these gifts;

Find some joy in them.

If you want to take me

Take this,

Love this,

And not the vows 

Of some invented prince;

If you would pay a price for love,

Then meet me on the other side 

Of words and nature and wanting,

Free,

Wreathed in silence 

And magic.