Love as Job

By S.T. Brant

Love never rests. It moves, in Death, you to and fro

over glades, dells, the moor,

Deserts, what land there is to trespass; loves do so

hand in hand. Death

Is the wind that chills the living’s skin, but lovers

are not disquieted,

They amble in the weather as though all is sunshine

always and nosegays

Lined created. They may. For those that stroll the earth

contented in eternity;

Sleepless through the legion sorrows fought off

in life; to ramble

With amorous, undefeated spirits in rumored darkness,

though their spirits’ armor,

Its dents and scars and cavities from life’s swords show:

Love moves them all

The more on and on and on past the power their gravestones.


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram

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