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Love says, “No one meshes souls as I; Without me there are just loose strands—so love Me first,” she presses, eyeing me and you. I lay myself then on her lap of love, Even as I’m stretching toward you; I Soon find myself, perforce, abreast with you. Next, you wrap around me, sidelining Love; Yet in so clasping me, it happens you Alight upon her right, just as had I. Let nothing come between my Love and you— Not even I; she knots us closer! Love Shows up the symmetry of you and I, And yet I’m drawn to her, and thus to you Again, now, from a different view. Still, I Cannot escape our common thread—this Love— And neither can you; ever-freshly I Await your sweet return—you, only you, And yet you do not come except for Love. She moves again: I know there is no I, No you; there’s only she, full center—Love Enjoining me to seek her joy in you.
SUCH COUNTRY AS THE LOVERS OWN Such country as the lovers choose is no tract for any but the saintly: there, a wired fence goes down at the end of a graveled road – each path thereafter, deer track, bear trail, boundaries set by the stone and weed as the reader discerns, butte-sites where the lovers come down in silence, smallness of world held pendulum-like between them. Such talk as stills there is not lost, but given place: a gap they could close with lips that kiss. Or pray. In such country as the lovers own, skies hover in the way of storms, clouds the solitary fowl cross in search of what must fall there: whether in parks or groves, secret dens – the small acts born of privacy. The storm begins and ends here: car's quiet throb in the dark; breath of cheek reading shoulder; touch" of her tranquil breast against his side; cold flakes touching the hood like tips of arrows. Every word he spends on that cheek, true. L. Paul Roberts Poetry Foundation winner, 1981 © David W. Parsley, 2011 Parsley Poetry Collection