Crazy-making’s what it’s called
when two labyrinthine humans get down
to deciphering love.
They knew each other and now they crudely decipher
patterns in each other:
the veins in their minds,
the shadows they cast one afternoon,
a catastrophe in tea leaves,
the trajectory of encroaching vines.
They are mindless of the thresholds
they scuff at;
they disregard the splintering door.
Affection seems impersonal
and hostility personal.
On reflection, it all seems mechanical.
It is all love. And such love.
It’s all love. And such love.
There’re twenty people in this two-person room,
and we’ve got to make space
for some wildflowers,
for the roots of evergreens reaching, inter being,
and our mystery:
where we haven’t yet touched.