Lisa Barnett

Whatever it may be, we may suppose it is not love, for love must leave its trace like contraband seized and displayed in rows; is not sufficient reason to erase the careful lives we have so far lived through— there is no call for us to undermine the walls we've built; no need to think anew of all the chains and choices that define us still. And yet for all our fine intent a single touch ignites the night and tries resolve past all resisting. What we meant before we mean again; fidelities have yet been known to shift and come undone and all good reasons fail us, one by one.