This isn't the poem I came here to write.
I'm circling round it, and will circle
for years.
Not to write a good poem.
Just to find the truth.
So very many facts
yet truth so rare.
I'm circling round it,
and will circle for years.
Circling, soft circling.
Gravity calling, hungrily, for a pair
for another part.
That pull feels true,
but I don't know.
What does it ask in the glass?
Ask, night after night?
For what does it cry?
What

(love)
is enough?