Maybe love is simply letting you believe

that it was only your face that launched

those fireworks and sailing ships, that I

am not automatic doors, that this violent

noise has you as its object, that human

ears so trained might Fourier transform

the stormy etchings into chords, that classic

Bread oozing through your twilit office where

we ate Wendy’s value meals past closing

was something more than the only way I could

whisper in both of our ears at the same time,

I’d like to make it with you, really would.

Maybe love is letting myself believe it too.

Maybe love is being wrong enough to see

what rites really mean. Deeply, calmly, we wade.