Love is a many legged beast
with too many knees
that turn at odd angles and
scratch with bristles the soft
underbelly of the earth,
living down below the surface
of our insecure home bodies.
It moves weirdly, wildly
stabbing and scrabbling and clinging to places it should never go.
A mind of its own but collectively fleshy,
it likes to say that it lives in our hearts,
but we know the truth,
as we know many lies,
that the cognitive consciousness maintains itself electronically
even if chemicals are all that we have.
in our heads
like a smell or a short chorus,
substantial but often without substance.
They say, don’t bury your dying before they’re dead.
Colloquial wisdom would have you wait
and water their souls with your waiting
and watch your waiting self to make sure
you’re not waiting too impatiently or obsequiously.
Just wait until the perfect moment,
take your shovel in hand,
and dig a hole for yourself while you’re down there.