There ain’t no doubt about the way I feel

You refuse your darkness,
and your peeling books.
Everything is simplified,
so each word sounds final.
A perfect telegram to Buddha.
But in this desolate sky,
my star is seen – next to
the steadfast sun.
Who tells me of requited
love at twenty,
and passion in the fifties.
Wrapped in honesty
that knows no tempering.

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