I love to say I love you:
by whisper in the middle of the night,
my words an emu’s wings
brushing across your slumber,
disturbing not even the spider
that crawls between the curtain
and the rod.
I love to say I love you:
in triumph,
shouted at the end of a race
or when I’m proven right,
my tone like orange bells
dredged from a century’s submersion,
gasping on shore.
I love to say I love you:
to lampposts at dawn,
near tortoises that gather by the roadside,
with the sort of thick throat
that precludes a tumbling out
of a lie, a secret, or—at last resort—
the truth.
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