Sunday, July 3, 2022



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 


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