Love, it can be said, is not discovered in the good times,
Though surely it’s present in a good friend’s smile.
Yet if love is to be primarily recognized
And distinguished from something less worthy of the term,
It’s to be discovered in the profoundest dismay,
In the epithet, the disparaging word.
This is perhaps love’s deepest mystery,
That it should be recognized in the deepest canyon,
In the exacting work of the Devil, requiring all His delicacy and skill.
That is where love is to be found, and this is what history is in the process of proving,
As if love was simply the clouds as they were moving.
No, as my loved one once pondered, as I lent her my ear,
“To love is to love that which your lover has not.”
To love, then, involves a negativity,
This, of course, stands against all proclivity.
Love is a void, though we think it a surplus.
Love is around, though we think it before us.
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