Confession

There are days when
love is everywhere I go,
in between the rows of peaches—

well, that’s not too hard to fathom.
Easy to find love where things
are sweetening by the hour.

But love in the mud puddle, too,
and the kitchen linoleum.
In the wind which blows

in my face whichever direction
I choose, and I choose to walk
and walk and walk just to see

if the wind will stop, and today
it does not. Love in the spinach.
Love in the radish. Love in the berries

beside the road, I do not know their names,
but they’re small and red with a currant-type leaf,
and they’re lemony when I hold them

in my mouth before spitting them out.
Love in the not knowing what things are called.
Love in the thunder. Love in the swallow’s path.

Love in the dust on the stereo. Love
in the way music plays in my mind,
and not in the room. Love in my anger.

Love in the bump on my brow.
Today the poet said the best tonic for dreams
was to not give a flip about tomorrow.

But I do—the chance for another radish,
another double rainbow—as cliché as it seems.
But there it was—a double rainbow! My god, so lovely.

And tomorrow, perhaps to see it again,
to fall in love ten thousand more times,
I would like to, I would. Is that greed?

Forgive me my happy sin.

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