Love Is a Parallax

'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
  in the impossible mind’s eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
  where wave pretends to drench real sky.'
'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man’s devil is another’s god
  or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
  is our life’s whole nemesis.
So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
  about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
  implacably from twelve to one.
We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
  and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
  who insists his playmates run.
Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
  like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
  should inflame the sleeping town.
So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
  caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
  playing his prodigal charades.
The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
  blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
  graves all carol in reply.
Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
  brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
  while footlights flare and houselights dim.
Tell now, we taunt where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
  the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
  joins his enemies’ recruits.
The paradox is that 'the play’s the thing’:
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
  there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
  an insight like the flight of birds:
Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy’s in going;
  some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
  cycling phoenix never stops.
So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
  and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack’s
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
  away our rationed days and weeks.
Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
  in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
  the simple sum of heart plus heart.
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