you know you are not in love
when the pronouns curl up
in a sun-mowed body
you and he
in crow-stooping shadows
float upstream
as a bunch of storm-buds
between pages
Marquez
that you won’t read otherwise
measures
love in a dark
and dank teaspoon
you can gulp it down
with the yeast-crumbs
old Margarite gave you
love is difficult to digest
birding is easier
you teach about the woman
with a dandelion-laced gown
who
in shreds and skin
becomes one scaly
rough
potato-grower
sometimes roots
are edible light
they smell of sweaty hands
two acres away
glass-ants
circle
the letters
that you pretend
not to read
they are
bitten
into
agile psychopaths
you
only you
want free Wifi at night
to heal love
in medicated quantities
Marquez can wait
for another day
when
the sun is
half an arc
and pines
less shrill
in Chasingre
