A collection of poems is made to be loved.
I trust each one will be loved, by many.
I pass by unmoved until the moment
I feel myself gliding fast across ice,
each breath an exhilerating potion.
What do others find in the odes they memorise?
Assume there's love somewhere hereabouts.
Baffling like the flocks I love that love the sky,
the shoals that love the seas.
I should turn again to the passed over poems
executed long ago, ghosts of falling leaves
in providential air. But unlike them I tumble
through fiercely delivered days.
I only wish to know better the one I love.