There is nothing civilized about love.

Not the way she does it.

A living thing of hoof

and horn. Of dervish whirl

and lunar howl.

She abides in the eye of a season of storms

where there can be no allowance

for abnegation—ask her to deny herself

and you ask the moon to abandon the sky

and orbit instead around your shoelace.

Her love is unfit for polite company.

Prone to violence, subject

to squalls. She goes in for a kiss

and takes out your eyes.

Society will not stand

for such barbarity, will demand

a dress code and Corinthians

which is, of course, a language

she has not learned to speak.

But then again, she will never

lie or vamp or hide behind

starched and lacquered protocol.

What you see is what

she feels.

unrefined. unrestrained. undiluted.

She stomps feet, she seizes hearts

in sticky-fisted strangleholds

then guards her stash like

a dragon’s hoard roaring


The best strategy for survival is to

Get To Her First.

Hunt hard and fast, chase her down

softly like a wild winged thing.

Do not try to tame her.

Gather the Tempest in your arms

and hold her close while she rages

for in her wake follows the purest brilliance

the most dazzling sunlight, the likes of which

exist only in dreamscapes

and Photoshop.

In all your days you will never again

see a love so true.

07.14 | unpublished