If you seek and hope to find The joys of love and treasures fine To indulge in mysteries of the mind Love cannot be captured within their care Or stopped short within a hunter’s snare But found inside the eyes, so real Intangible force, so mild, so real Love is that spot from deep inside Touch it and overflow the skies Gods, golden-laden, wrote of it once Epics, sonnets, poems of lust A bronze Lincoln on the street That tiny space where minds meet Michael, love cannot be told Unable to cure and likewise sold It can feed men’s most vital veins Or steel, off track, like the tracks of trains Hard and uneasy–a King’s chair A bronzed leaf, dying with out care The poet loves the paper he touches The cripple needs the use of his crutches…