Sonnet 57

Where be the love of sonnet 57
When peace is not upon me,
when her hand
Does service by its absence,
when our plan
Waits most on love like life waits most on heaven?

But where is bitterness, the tang that, sour,
Would purse my lips to break remembered kisses.
Not absence, but intent in touch; I miss these
That could commit two hearts, could covet hours.

Reality cries out. Infernal ticks
That crack eternal love enameled by
The slave's own hope.
Confused and conquered, I
Feel hands across my face that conjure quick.

I'll wait upon her when our news she breaks
That we made love like love must mean to make.

Nik Habermel, August 1998