Not Over It

In sympathy with Gaspara Stampa By woman so touched, so pressed, detachment being thought achievable at all is boggling in itself. Its being thought achievable by love—but love for only all (not someone’s single) sentience— appears the precept of too cold a form of flame. How much of a hand in things relinquishes the hold of things-at-hand? What kiss might such a mind reclaim? A swirl of dust in Buddhist schools, perhaps. A view of several solar systems from above. Not love. The thought appeals as it appals: Slow learners, we must spurn the selving sensualities, to feel for feelers of this kind, unfasten passion’s burner to identify what’s under it— in short, must court dispassion just to be compassionate.