Too High

There is no magic word or rabbit trick

to tempt, to coax, the cat back in the bag.

“What’s left to say to the old lunatic?”

you’d rightly joke. (I did induce the gag.)

“So here’s a flower; love it and get lost.”

“Your love is for a concept!” you could shout.

“…like God, or pi, or winter’s second frost.”

“Give Bast the poems; kindly leave me out.”

“You’ll hold your court of angels in the reeds—

accept my blessing, I see daemons, too—

but beings made of flesh have tastes and needs,”

you might not say, but I could think for you.

My love’s not for the memory of a kiss;

your conscience set a bar too high to miss.