By woman so touched, so pressed,
detachment being thought
achievable at all
is boggling in itself. Its being
thought achievable by love—but love
for only all (not someone’s single) sentience—
appears the precept of too cold
a form of flame. How much
of a hand in things
relinquishes the hold
of things-at-hand?
What kiss might such
a mind reclaim? A swirl of dust
in Buddhist schools, perhaps.
A view of several solar
systems from above.
Not love.
The thought
appeals as it appals:
Slow learners, we must spurn
the selving sensualities, to feel
for feelers of this kind,
unfasten passion’s burner
to identify what’s under it—
in short, must court
dispassion just
to be compassionate.
