The hand that pours

I began to pour love from myself,

Like a hand tipping a jug,

Thinking I was the hand and the jug and the love,

When I am none of those things,

Only all of them,

For everything is all we ever are,


Only when I began to pour did I see I was not pouring,

And only being drenched in endless love did I see that what is endless can never be produced.

I am not the jug,

But the love overflowing from it,

Which breaks from my borders like a river breaks a dam,

Now seeing that though I have always been the river,

I had thought I was the dam,

And had only stopped myself by not seeing who I am


Because there is no agency in love,

Nor is it ever more or less,

Just a river breaking its own banks,

Eternally,

I can stop it no more than can a dam,

Built by human hands,

Trying to stop a river of love,

Of energy, of everything,

Locked inside synecdoche,

Always one below the whole,

Like the I inside the we,

Like ourselves inside the world,

Like the banks of an everflowing river that think they are the river