It is the spots on the inside of a dark room that resembles love most closely.
Blinking eyelashes full of sleep - you think the proper rub will set you free.
It will not.
You winnow through the stained glass pushed-in chairs and clear your head
from the sand.
Sun escapes its wicked thin line through the bottom shade - and love
is the last form of dancing dust -
mouths hanging open 'in wait'.
Sometimes you cry from the stinging rays of dirt that love dresses in - its wide hat
dipped down covering you from nothing.
Love has eyes on the back of its head.
Its the snowball aimed at your heart unrequited sidewalk meetings with closed hands
its the fear of goodbye dragging its hollow feet across your throat...
tightens up with your name.
Love is the sound before the doorbell - its rush of energy balanced on the fringe - the last sweet
drop of moisture.
Love is the splash of unexpected color in a large film of gray.
Wild galloping horses that stop in your tracks and set the way for you.
The wind in your hair is love.