Between

Love
for all the things it is or is not
lives
in the margins
 
in the inch
between your hand and mine
in the slit of breath
that separates our
cheeks
 
in the beggar’s creases
of hands
and the missing eye
in her shoe 
 
in the nibble
at the top of the heart
that begs
to be called, to be
remembered 
 
dishes in drying rackLove is 
in the cleft between drying
dishes
 
in the stretch
of road
between here and home
and the triangle of the newborn’s
skin, 
legs all
froggied
into his torso
 
It is in the inversion of space
sandwiched in my marrow
 
it’s in the space
love is
 
Maybe it’s the wine. you say,
the privileges that have kept me brittle
and stuck in my head
but more likely it is the decades
of yearning
I have lived in just a few days
 
It makes me cry
here
knowing that love
is something between
 
held in the vastness of the not
knowing
hard as I try to
make it –
love 
and tie it in a box with ribbons
  
If it were only enough
choices at the “right” time
a person
an age
a passage
 
It perches
on the edge
of the unknown
and hugs to the skin
of
wonder
and connection
 
like a wild spring meadow
it is 
love
love
love
spring meadow
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