does it happen?
When does
a smile become
a craving
and a face become
a landscape you want
to fix your eyes on
when the day
is done?
And why is one
pair of hands
in the universe
suddenly the only set
that can soothe
or reassure—
or properly
touch you into a state
of excitement and bliss?
What magic is it
that can make
and idiosyncrasies
seem like puzzle pieces
that will make sense
when you combine
his with yours—
and why
do so many people
seem to be mistaken
after a while—
when they finally
to call it love?





Closeup of “Sheepskin” by Andrew Wyeth, Tempera, 1973

2 thoughts on “Prelude”

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