There is a place for love in the language

you choose to use, my most poetic friend;
if you open your heart against fear, rage,
you will find that good port when all times end:
I say "all" because time is most certain
as it doubles and trines, kind of like words
in a thesaurus — each term's a burden
in the present, though the past pushes towards
some future, I guess, some place where time jumps
out and splatters like hot oil in the pan,
and you're frying language in different clumps;
or like waves that trace wakes to/from the sand:
a vessel comes home on its own timeline–
it's the same thing with words: please don't mind mine.
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