When Reason died at the age of twenty,
replaced as it was by Romance of sex
as skin became the only certainty
while I stroked the beloved’s neck,
the world was a red rush of confusion.
When Will at thirty succeeded romance
as discipline became a burning sun,
Work fired a bright, burnished, whirling dance.
Yet when Will and Romance combined
at fifty to forge a great synthesis
with the emergence of exquisite skill,
life appeared no longer obtusely blind
to the space between our parenthesis
in the song we so casually distill.