A few years ago on Valentine's Day I gave a poetry reading,
and decided to read any poems I had containing the word "love."
Thinking it might be perhaps two, or three, I scanned through
a lot of work, and found I think at least a dozen poems --
love indeed, but none of it sentimental, or easy.
This was love of the fractured cardiac variety,
or of skimpy proportions, eked out. Nothing
lavish, lace-bejeweled or chocolate-dipped.
Raw-edged, crushed, minced.
Propped with a kickstand
smack-dab middle of a dark road.
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