Thursday, January 21, 2016


Love is maladroit
and hypochondriacal.

It's (sym)pathetic (hug me, please)
and spun as fun as sugar.

How alarming - standing on sacrilege,
timber-lipped and monk(ey)ish,

while little birds
sing madrigals
to a hinting heart.

Surreptitious puppy-love has mitigated wonders:
histrionics, bliss, hysterics,
lickety-split hairs
or ears
or bread
until one's mustard

up the courage

to accept

that love's alive and glinting,
shriven, staring like a star,
patient in the hopeful, deft
midwifery of time.

It's feast and hunger paired,
it's holiness and hippos,
it's hippocampus, loneliness
picked up
where it left off.

It's cause and end, and undertone,
and nectar's long collection,
It's planetary motion
and the Bright and Mourning Son.

It's north wind, south wind,
fervor and safety,
labor, bath,
and laughter. 

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