The Only Love That Counts
Is the hawks’ love, the fierce
and taloned love that finds itself
in the open above us,
the love that meets foot to foot
and falling,
with only the sharpest,
killing parts
kissing.
They drop as if dead,
together,
towards the wing-
breaking ground that waits
like a promise,
and, amid the rush
of their blood’s hot pull,
they part,
and rise, again, to fall, again,
together.
And in our simple,
timid-with-the-lights-on hearts
everything is done by halves
and, bitterly, we know
we have nothing
half so raw
as the hawks’ truth,
love’s bold,
all-giving
tumble.
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