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Love isn't always
so unabashed.
It mounts slowly in the shadows
rises with the discarded dust,
with each moment of emotion
shedded,
that we thought we could simply
leave behind.

They stick together,
fuzzy emotional knotts.
You say you can't define this feeling,
sweep it beneath the bed
where we lay.

It hides itself away
in the warm secret places of youth,
in the spots we used to treasure,
that we don't visit much these days
since old age
has ran away with hope.

It whispers to us in dreams,
where walls have less power,
and every man is a ghost
who can walk through anything,
even his own fear.

In the morning
we can brush it all away,
with dirty linens and fine sleep
collecting in our eyes,
because modern man believes
dreams have no relevance
to everyday things.

Love isn't always showy,
doesn't always make a grand entrance.
Ours is a backdoor
love affair.

Hippies take the backway
no exceptions.
Use the entrance reserved
for theives,
and reincarnated French whores.

We all move in like rats
through cracked doors
and blinding shadows,
Slip through the narrow hollers
where love and desire
sprout and grow.

Wild weeds
thriving somehow
in the miniscule divisions
that sit between concrete blocks
where fertile earth collects
and offers up
small opportunities
to live.

And people say,
look at this proof
of the resilience of life.
I wish to say love is
resilient, too,
but there is only so much growth
that can take place
in darkness,
hard surroundings,
and small pieces
of stolen ground.