Perhaps Her Love

Perhaps her love is humane. She
only minding your demands out of care for your pride
or to spare you an image of yourself in abjection:
A sorry nothing, propped up by lies
woven so tight that you are nearly convinced
the look and posture are indeed you.

Yet the vestments do tear.
The world is much more
than the stage of your glory for them not.
And it has happened, time and again,
and when it does, there she abides,
amid the ruins of past ambitions,
unaffected and resolute in the mess of you,
resplendent in her uncanniness,
her ability to be in spite of nothing.

She smoothes your ruffled hair,
straightens a dog-eared collar,
assuring you nothing’s changed.
When in fact,
the world has turned in your sleep
and you’ve woken on the threshold
of a new dream.