there is this love, and you and me.
I wield that word like a toy sword –
waving that plastic and menacing thing
like the dance of a stomping child.
I love you, I whisper it like
a chant in an archaic tongue, committed to memory,
half-hoping for divine intercession.
I love you to make sense of the tragedy
of your saying it back to me.
I love you as Dorian gazes at his reflection,
I love you as Eve drapes leaves over her breasts,
I love you as a pilgrim embarks at night
with a tired horse and empty pockets.