Porthole
Love is a porthole
In the giant iron box
We’ve all been born into
First you find an embrasure
To see what everyone else sees:
This is a tree
That's a dish washer
There’s a squirrel
This, we call a street
All that above is blue
While below we deem green
Millions of tiny gaps
In the firmament
Of isolated lookingness
Gazing out on the world
Agreeing on a language
That is cold and precise
While love is a less lonesome view
From a rip in the screen
Shared with someone like you
Where I can say
You know, the grass
Today has a purplish hue
Dusted with splashes
Of blooming clover
And you touch my hand
In a gesture of assent
Which means:
Yes my love,
I see that too
7/2/22
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