Love loves love.
And perhaps therein lies our problem.
Maybe love has nothing to do with us as we defined us.
Maybe love is like strong, strong, strong running water
carving a channel through the world
through us to another person.
And just like with strong running water,
you'll need an engineering miracle
to divert it from its chosen course.
It's the love that loves, not us.
And love cares nothing for our bruised feelings, ruined egos,
and smashed thumbs.
The love just keeps rushing to the one
it loves, to splash it and cover it over with itself.
And should the loved one accidentally drown,
the love probably wouldn't notice.
Love is like that.
It wants to flow and keep flowing, move
and keep moving out of the imperium
into our sad, drab, parched plane of existence.
It will rage on and on.
And if you get crushed by it, well, too bad.
Just deal.
Just deal because there's always a chance for peace.
Ladies and gentlemen, a past and present view
of Richard Siken's Scheherazade followed by our final chapter
of book ends.
[APPLAUSE]
[MUSIC PLAYING]
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
Howard was late, and no one can sleep.
The horse is running until they forget that they are horses.
It's not like a train where the routes have to end somewhere.
It's more like a song on a policeman's radio.
And we rolled up the carpet so we could dance.
And the days were bright red.
And every time we kissed, there was another hour to slice
into pieces.
Look at the light through the window pane.
That means it's noon.
That means we're inconsolable.
Tell me how all this end.
Love too will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.
[APPLAUSE]