Unconditional

An Afterthought

 

I need not read into your eyes

Antropomorphic fantasies,

Nor mysteries

Of ancient Eastern rite,

As some with Siamese or Persians might.

Your love's an open book:

You look

To me as I to Paradise.

My finger traces "dog" on frosted glass

And you, from out there on the grass,

Perceive me writing "god".

 

-Fred Lanting

 

 

Done