If love is a dovetail drawer
I will turn my curious eye to the
dark inside
under ancient flowered paper
dust bits and lockets, or my mother’s
twelve-piece china
doesn’t matter
nor whether Shaker or Bauhaus
retro or rustic
how wide, weighty
or improbable

No, the corners hold secrets—
fingers that catch
the places that touch

And require practiced hands, sober skill
and a bit of glue—
to build a join of tensile strength  
to bear love’s blow