I do not know what love is.
I wait for it to pour over me,
To swamp my brain with color.
Still I wait, ignorant of the corners of my brain
In which it is hidden, buried I know not where,
Perhaps in woodland strewn with fallen branches
And naked larches hanging with hoar frost.
I should find it somewhere.

Perhaps it would be better to be half mad
Shaking my shrunken brain
Against the white bone of its skull
In a body protesting its upkeep
And the price of the rent.

I'll dig up old love,
Warm her frozen hands,
Lace her with hot tea and
Elderberry wine and
Tears of recognition
Will run down my cheeks.