I like to swim in their pools,

I love your wind as simple

as a pine forest undisturbed.  

I love your brainy attempts to

understand love, especially

when you became mentally wavering

and said to a past despair, “I never

knew you,” your hand wrapping a wrap

around my shoulders.

I love the way you talk

when you make a picnic out

of a simple conversation,

and make a joy out of small

knick-knacks of words

instead of having a discussion

over champagne.

Instead I like the way

you are satisfied with the absurd.

I like your chest and the way

your heart beats when you realize

that you have only been given

the second best, instead of something

heart to heart, just as how Christ was

the substitute then, and Christ was lodged

in your breast.

 

I also love the way you eat eggs,

and have never admitted that

or stooped so low as to say, “Our love

we have both begged,” or that the pain

of life we did know.