When lemon drops stick together in a paper bag
it’s like love.
There are certain risks in cooperative living,
warmth, gravitational laws, the sticky sun.
And when the light bulb pops and explodes
it’s like love.
When we are naked and heart pounding in the shower,
in the new dark, afraid of being so close to water.
And it’s like love
when the sun disappears for months
and when you stick cloves into an orange.
And when, in the woods, antlers fall from deer onto grass
it’s like love.
To persist into spring when you have lost
some part of the whole self.
When you feel a chill and cover your feet
it’s like love.
Suddenly you’re in a movie, the breeze from an open
window isn’t real, the walls are paper, the food is plastic.
And it’s like love
when a train stops dead in a tunnel
and when a beloved cat shows its claws.
And when tar is compressed into uniform blocks
it’s like love.
The air is all white smoke and impossible to breathe,
the blocks stack to the sky.