Classic Poem

No wonder they made him blind—
Cupid—and gave him arrows.
In two strokes, so, they defined
the odds of love and the sorrows.

The energy of desire
confronts the Probable—
so random, though, in its fire
a queen may well love a bull,

or an old man a child.
A barb is no less a curse
that the archer shot it wild.
You can't yank in reverse

without doubling the cut,
nor push through as it's sent—
for less than your life—what
arrived by accident.











By permission of the author.