Whatever it may be, we may suppose
it is not love, for love must leave its trace
like contraband seized and displayed in rows;
is not sufficient reason to erase
the careful lives we have so far lived through—
there is no call for us to undermine
the walls we’ve built; no need to think anew
of all the chains and choices that define
us still. And yet for all our fine intent
a single touch ignites the night and tries
resolve past all resisting. What we meant
before we mean again; fidelities
have yet been known to shift and come undone
and all good reasons fail us, one by one.
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