One cant love without fear of exposing
tender parts to pain, nor can one leave
love to feeling incomplete, to make sense
from pain, never-ending, like glare.

As cities drain themselves of love, love
lives on in suburbs where wry
decanters dream of haunts, grow up tough
and unaware in a field of aging brick.

Now when Earth as a planet needs tending to,
the bushels of waifs need love, and in the
forests where man has placed his soul,
brooks murmur in the leaves, apples bud in droves.