Love Check List

I count up the ways
I love you from one to
fifty two.  Or so.
Your eyes.
Your smile.
Your disposition to
keep me close.
And somewhere in the
thirties, I realize these
things—small or large—
on a bone blank page,
associated with numbers,
aren’t it at all.
My love for you
can’t be counted.
Or named.
Or explained.
Like before.
The thread that binds
those numerical additives
can’t be showed
or contained.  And yet,
I simply feel the need
to outline how I feel
in a list to be checked…
because the logic of feeling
seems so obvious, yet
understated.
The way my breathing changes
in the night as you roll over,
can’t be audible.
How everything made sense
mathematically,
physically,
spiritually,
and not at all,
when you held my hand
over the tomatoes in the
supermarket can’t be
simply understood.
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Categories: Poetry

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