With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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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.