Love, Perhaps

I choose to exclude ugliness,

Pettiness, spite whenever possible.

My own such contributions surely

Are enough and might suffice.

No, I may be able to keep my eyes

Gazing into your eyes, days or weeks

Of longing splintered uneven, hours

Of daydream fading, folded into you—

But your kindness lets the nervous

Pace (tending toward a foot race)

Relax, so we walk hand-in-hand

Instead. The heat of your damp palm

Against my skin; the alternating tug

(hoping for your hand back one more time)

And soft settle of our cupped hands,

Small in large, then tug and settle,

Tug and settle. This rhythm is a gift

Made possible only by your grace—

True beauty is potential, freedom

From the need to fit a form oneself.

The most beautiful sculpture may enfold

All the viewer’s ugliness—embrace it—

Or on the holiest day of the calendar,

It may join love and beauty in a brief,

Exquisite momentary gaze.

And thus tomorrow morning when you smile

And I smile at you upon waking,

And the taste of your upper lip is nothing

Like I ever guessed or knew—then

You’ll close your eyes, for the length

Of a sunbeam, perfect in your place.

And after a moment of joy, the dusty

Imperfection of the sunbeam bought,

I’ll pocket one more memory of grace

That’s freed me to remember love

As love, perhaps, was not.

EJR