A first draft. Poets United no. 88
VALENTINE
I tell you that I love you
quite a lot. On impulse,
provocation, in response to
some bright word or deed.
But when you ask how much
I raise my hands, palm
paralleling palm, like the
cartoon angler drifting space
between implausible and not
enough by half. Because this
weary clutch of words, this
fumbled mime of airy imprecision,
they were sung and danced into
oblivion long before we creatures
straightened up, shaved off
our beards, plaited tresses and
became philosophers of love.
So I guess we’ll have to settle
for the odd half turn to face
each other passing on the stairs,
or the tendency to lean together
on the sofa when the stove
is burning high and there’s
clearly nothing else to do.
