We carry our desire to visit the river in our heads
Although we only occasionally make the effort needed to see it, that winding mud flat just there, really, adjacent to us.
We decide our feet don’t need to dip in the current yet, we can wait.
As much as we talk about things we should do
Mostly we are distracted.
The elegance assigned to love is rarely ascribed to death
The stately garden on some expansive estate in the hills
A secret meeting place for lovers
The hum of time, place, and people
At just the right moment
Does not visit a deathbed.
But they are the same
Beyond the messiness
The mottled purple flesh
Of an argument or gasping breaths to stay alive.
Yes, they are the same
Beyond the lover’s glance
The twinkle in an eye
Inviting the whole world in
All poems are about love, in the same way they are all about death