"Perhaps you'll tire of me," muses
my love, although she's like a great city
to me, or a park that finds new
ways to wear each flounce of light
and investiture of weather.
Soil doesn't tire of rain, I think,
but I know what she fears: plans warp,
planes explode, topsoil gets peeled away
And worse than what we can't
control is what we could; those drab
scuttled marriages we shed so
gratefully may auger we're on our owns
for good reason.
"Hi, honey," chirps Dread
when I come through the door; "you're home.
Experience is a great teacher
of the value of experience,
its claustrophobic prudence,
its gloomy name-the-disasters-
my wary one, it's far too late
to unlove each other.
Instead let's cook
something elaborate and not
invite anyone to share it but eat it
all up very very slowly.
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