Love, I have come to believe, is a form of intelligence.
I could never conceive of Hitler as intelligent. Clever,
yes. Superficially bright, having a sense of determination,
perhaps logical, perhaps even rational in a strict sense –
but intelligent? Never.
Intelligence, to my mind, always sees beyond.
It senses, at times, as a blind man taps the street
often seeing more than the sighted – aware
and knowing more than it knows!
Whatever the search – however carried out – intelligence
can be trusted to make the necessary connection
with that which binds the unbindable quark, that which
predisposes the arc of matter, space and time
and even, while he’s asleep, might inspire poet’s rhyme.