The death of history

We need to know our day
           feel our way through it
until we come to the night
           there is no passion in the moon
it is what we bring with us
           or fail to bring
the precision of love
           that knows its season
and the order of its duties
            We could stare at the moon
forever and accomplish nothing
           it’s in the decanted hours
of the day that our fortunes
           will be made
our bodies dispersed
           through field and city
chasing the arc
           of our ambition
but life is not repetition
           it is advancement
through cobalt blue
           and copper residues
to each his or her north star
           Love composes us
it’s what we’re made of
           and what we chiefly make
busied as we are in the hive
           of our affections

Aphrodite gone to ground
           Venus alone in her bed
night of wind and rain
           and the soil of secret growth
in which a rose suddenly unfolds
           an assertion of beauty
on a scale that taunts the planets
           what Homer saw in his blindness
that drove him to sing of love
           as being above all things
and the only symmetry
           worth fighting for
love synonymous —after all—
            with the death of history

John Lyons