If I want to write about love,
I’ll do it in AB positive, universal
receiver. If I want to write
about love, I’ll make it count.
What do I have to say about it?
Love is honesty and saving the last
slice of German chocolate cake.
It’s more than domesticity.
Love is a smoldering pile of leaves.
It’s a notebook filled, written
to the bitter loving end.
Let me define love.
It cannot be defined.
Abstract mathematics is full
of glorious gaps. Love lives there.
Love is a Thursday. Love
is a rogue wave toppling
fishing trawlers and research vessels.
Love is calamity. It’s smelling
the End of Summer and singing
from the back porch.
Love is nothing.
Everything is love.