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Sonnets Mine is a love that does not ask for more -
not love that's conjured from some depth with pain;
my love cares not to rise up from a sore
and keeps its happiness without more rein.
I'd hold it fast if I but had the need,
I'd kill it with the dust of mind-made laws,
but such an operation 'gainst some weed
would pull up nothing - I've expunged such flaws.
You think I lie now, to myself, I guess;
I cannot say for certain, though I know
that if I find such stories when I press
I'd find no value in what thinking'd show.
If understanding's not without self-doubt,
It's not quite worth it just to stomp and shout.
