One of my curls delightfully wraps around his finger,
My hand reaches for his finger, sizes the awful curl,
A word of hate strikes the lover.

You love me, but what is love?
Love is patience,
Love is kindness,
Love is wise,
My love, we are none of those things,
Our love's impatient,
Our love's cruel,
Our love's foul.

See the flower in the desert?
Under the dreadful red sun,
See the petals as they fall?
That is our love.

For you,
M. L.

There is a man in Newfoundland.
His hair is grey, he sails away.
With net and rod he catches cod.
His skin is tan; his calloused hands
no longer steady. Age has made his burdens heavy.

He makes it home, he lives alone.
His wife is buried, in Fogo Island cemetery.
The day is done but there's a guest,
he's small and young. It's his grandson.
He sees a smile upon his face
and it makes
it worth the aches.