it hurts to love.
it feels good to
love.
a man is an anchor
—a woman is a
ship.
like I know
something, racing across deserts, where cacti are precious.
so up so down how
have we laughed all night?
running through
fields toppling into jungles, outsoared by ambition.
a man died singing
his song. a woman held every word. walking alone are memories.
upon cotton, her
favorite pillow, another left perfume
—so purposed, sure
rage, if to find a woman to violin about.
like trips in
cities, or country snow, feelings made available.
to share is to
hurt. to remorse is to fret. too many at our wheel.
as time to live it,
to exercise it, so afraid of looking like chaos.
a bachelor might
disappear, waving at himself, keeping image, hurting
happily.
it feels good to love.
a man is an anchor
—a woman is a ship.
like anxious
times, bathing her heart, if but this moment—as to define our vows, as to die
in us, so happy for science.
we exceed it. we baffle
it. we feel chemicals.
more than flesh,
much more flesh.
unsung in
courtsides, restored in categories, carrying nine women ago.
when a soul loves,
like naïve at life, we must protect, cherish them.
otherwise,
perpetuation, barns aflame, prisoners of war.
it hurts to love.
it feels good to
love.
—a woman is a ship.
