My heart is fed by so many tributaries
and spits and splits at least two ways!
How difficult to keep straight
what quickens circulation, who eases its pace:
a lose-lipped smile here, fingers dancing on letters there;
the openness of letting and the strung bow;
the tight wanting of one truth and still, wide planes
that laugh at those.
What is love if not a contra dance
where many arms spin many beings,
where we share the floor - no one's territory -
and the music moves the mood we've got to ache with to obey?
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