If you could tell me the work of worlds
I would not listen unless
your words involved the play of hearts
upon love's orbit which brings the seasons
and hardens thin blood to warm frost.

The science of locks repels me
from a supple clever key,
the physics of hatred demands
movements that have nothing to do
with the style that you sing.

And in the last world that magnified
my broken ankle from past and future
to agonizing present, we fought for
grander things than the safety of our
knees.

The edges of a scientist's dream
must be rational indeed
to account for the old trunks
we carry with us while waking
and while asleep. God forgot
to give us the combination
on this world where beauty
locks itself inside the blossoms
of a billowing cherry tree, he
forgot to make us study love
instead of the Earth's engine
while ignoring spiritless disease