Photo / Jez Timms
If love had no name I'd turn circles instead
In the grass, sockless, I'd play my toes like typewriter keys across soft March soil
and the child would look dumbfounded in my direction before asking,
"What are typewriters?"
Is there nothing that remains?! I'd think, but not say, because children have ears
and the soft muscles of my sides would stiffen and my eyebrows would knot
and I'd forget about love circles while my bitter outrage engulfed me,
while the present hum of sunlight made patient pleasure of the afternoon,
while love spoke gently, in no hurry to be heard,
Nothing remains. Indeed, nothing remains.