love ignites
in the pocket of the soul,
if such places exist at all.  

what text, who studied, how was it
measured,  the growth of inspiration.
from small unrecognized note,
through the questioning shadows
on your face, to the solid
pull of willful creating.

what evidence would we
find that the ordinance
by which we consented
was nothing more than
the trapping of a mad night.

i am as comfortable as
leaf released from limb settling
as bloom's potential,
to say that i loved you.
without knowing why.