love is a nectarine if anything, narratologically
significant of course, 99 cents from the ralphs
down the street or love is small change rescued
from the cafeteria and a shared detergent cup
to wash a dress clean of heartbreak
or an echo of a song, a hand like an anchor
in the unmooring night or a mourning
borne together, a raised glass or a worn-down
silence held careful close and cherished
love is holding i suppose, like recognition
like listening like acknowledgement, love
is a seat at the table for the left-behind the lost
dancing through the long goodbye, savouring
every instant every triumph, a little stone
sheltered safe in my bruised fruitflesh heart.