I imagine love to be
like a glitching theremin,
jittering capacitors,
undulant frequencies—
juking, jiving, birring.
Flitting through clover blossoms,
stealing nectar, offering honey
to the hives of the sun;
rosebuds gathered, borrowed,
never owned.
Something like the shape of caws
in velvet throats—
held briefly aloft
like a rusted locket,
a gold ring, a grub;
promises swallowed
then given back.
Their phlegm strewn askew,
picked clean like carrion
by vultures descending through spindrift
and trembling wind—
vows stripped to bone.
What rots dries out.
What dries out feeds the field.
Beneath the seeds,
time sharpens its claws
until finches and psalms
of lovers
begin singing again.
