Sonnet 100:

Muse. You.
We have tangibility subtracting song
— work converted to worthless argument
with little or no honor.

But it adds up. The numbers spoil everywhere — everywhere times
we don’t have to see you
to get the job done. We’re faster than time.

We forget that’s why singing actuaries went wrong,
unmoored. Their affection all idly vicarious here.
Vicarious isn’t crooked enough. Fame, skill have long
redeemed our fury over what accounts spent.
The survey speaks of love only in numbers, hymns,
a despised waste of life, if any, as satire.