This love is to love the pinky toe in weight to the face,

And the harsh coughs as if whispered vows.

The hard sleep as moans of pleasure.

And the grumbling tummy as if a delicate laugh.

This is a wonderful panicking.

This is the fight and the submission of a rebellious religion.

And it is to see a sculpture in her tired awakening as much as her in a castlesque gown.

This is the sea leaving its bed.

This is to know that one eyelash of hers could launch more warships than a legion of Helens.

This is to see that all previous love poetry by all the geniuses invoking moons, suns, stars, seas, galaxies and infinities, are but poor dedications to one of her resting fingertips.

This is the cave where giants somersault.

And it is the waving flag of her body.

This is the love of tense, creaking wooden crucifixes,

And the edge of the imagination of men.

This is the love that can breathe anywhere.

This is the hour that finds knowing in her fragrance,

And the most death-defying anthem just in the thought of the color of her eye.

This is the love that bequeathes beauty unto misshapen heads.

Yes, this is the love that makes morning comes in the evening now.

Makes space make sounds…

Makes tick, tock, tock, tick, tock whist

Yes, this is that love.