i write a letter to the beloved
my fingers move only in love
i move in love
and love moves me;
which sense to keep when loved by the beloved;
which of any of my things could i need?
what use for eyes that see the beloved everywhere;
for direction when upon the beloved’s door?
nothing need make be sense said anymore
the beloved knows what i would write before i do;
the beloved in my veins, in my blood