And if I must recall
the ways love spoke to me
I think that no one,
not a living soul,
would understand
that it is in
the ordinary,
the way
love dances
(if you're lucky)
with a supermarket trolley
or carries home
a mop
or puts another pot
of breakfast tea
upon a kitchen table,
strewn
with debris
from a life
inconsequential,
or reads aloud
the novels of Neil Gaiman
and John Wyndham
(in which a field mouse
yearns to bite
the nut of wisdom
and three-legged plants,
carnivorous
and deadly,
race to the edges of imagination)
love lives forever on
beyond
mere hope
where anything ...
where everything ...
is possible.
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