Love,

this rapture

we sing

with lips delicately

bound.

Cardinal mornings

make the bathroom towels reek

less of Hospital cots

and rubber gloves,

the feeling of transparency

is less alone

and tangible.

Sweet elation

with hands gingerly

caught.

Ferocious is

this beating heart

in Passion’s hold,

the cell with comforting pads

clear of hell,

Love is

a cruelly tortoise reclamation,

and I assume it’s willing patient.