74.

Made of systems? Love and justice have lost out

To work. Productivity is reproduction.

These joints are sore with work and ink.

Manuscripts are lost or eaten: buildings

Crumble; trusts are broken. Work chases

The death sentence we face. Belief

And psychosis attempt to make sense

Of the brute movement of time and nature.

It may be that we and our children fade

And are forgotten. But I will cast

My hope with you, my writing incidental

In your absence. That is my love song

As embarrassing as it is for all involved:

The smell of peach and daisies in our nostrils.