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I’m all gushy and smushy tonight, comfortable in our big sweater of love. We did some family stuff today and this evening, playing in the splash park, and then playing on the swingset and with the hose. Gush gush gush. Do real poets feel like poeming when things are going well? It doesn’t really seem so, though love poems are fabulous, so that’s a thing. Could I possibly poem this big love into something good? I’d like to try, tonight.

Hand in Hand into Sunday

This is a hymn for big watermelons and boat dreams, we spit the pits into a jar. It is a love poem for this big life. What do you think when things go accidentally right? What do you think about how we faltered into big love? Thanks, big thanks, for the hand with my disastrous brain. Hear applause, at the fact of our raised eyebrows and glints that speak in desires. Churning and churning in the widening churn, the cream always turns to butter, in the spirit of the world, after a while. Let us write it, and bite it, the way that I feel, even in the rough cold of January, the sounds of sure love bring on the melt, and in July, the fires fanning and tapping through.

This is the song for my full heart, the hymn for your finger wiping a drip of hosespray from my cheek,

and this is how we go hand in hand into Sunday.

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yea! happy love poem. Hugsies, poemfriends.

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