A second draft.

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, 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 that semi-turn to face each other
passing on the stairs,
 or the tendency
to lean together on the sofa when

the wind blows hard and the stove
is burning bright, right here at
the centre of the known world.