love

Nothing is without place,

in mind, in physical apprehension --

or if "a dagger of the mind" is the purpose,

hold on to it for dear life, or else kill somebody.

Just when I thought I had it made, I lost it.

Just when I knew what to do, I was an old man.

You hear that bird sing in the tree, there,

you know still what a tree is?

Love is a place, not a person, love is

a weather of time, a convenience to absent sorrows.

But talk is the cheapest of all, means what it wants to,

waits up for no one, always goes home alone.