Should we sit on far sides of the river
to remember that we are in love,
or think that one of us is fallen, and buoyed
at last amid a thousand petals
in the customary way?
Should I want you to be surrounded
by hungry and lawless things
or lost in the endless repetition
of a black wood,
that I might fight my way to you?
Would the random growth of cells
or mouse-trap chromosomes that
stiffen memory and my marrow
somehow stitch our hearts?
My love, don't be afraid.
I am yours more for our convention,
for desire's wildly ambitious and weary march,
for the urchins of habit
and the fog of familiarity.
For you, I light a sentinel beacon
many fathoms across the blue.
This is the way of a poet
who gives his heart to you.
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