What is it about love that makes me sharpen my teeth? Like a fox at the henhouse door I pace the threshold half-hungry, half-afraid, listening for the flutter that might mean ruin that might mean feast I leave the door open as if love were a guest already gathering its coat I keep the exit light on neon blinking inviting, practicing goodbyes before the room is even empty Why do I think I can grasp the wind, when to still it would be to kill it? I turn to the tide with this question and it replies only by pulling away then returning as if to say: love is not kept thing. The answer is small and ordinary I must place my palm Open in the river knowing it will not stop but pass through me