No Record of Wrongs
Love does keep a record of some things—
your solitary walks in Coln Saint Aldwyn’s,
a precise curl of Virginia Creeper tendrils,
vermillion in autumn, the way you carefully
smelled horses’ necks beneath the mane back home,
velveteen crushes of cornhusks lashed to lampposts
Love notes you’ve yet to find a Petoskey stone,
have not managed to secure passage
in a hot air balloon at dawn. Love traces
those scars left by its own sweeping hand, marks
your fevered night-sky relish, your strange enfolding
of language in language and the red-winged blackbirds
enfolding themselves in blue-green marsh
Love keeps a record of you singing to yourself,
tallies your tears. Love folded a page corner
the day your shoulders sank like the horizon,
from a grey-salt schooner, love knows how
you should be touched.
No seeker of wrongs will read
love’s record, nor ask for it
let love’s book be freely shown
and may we ever seek
to write
Image: Daniele Idini