“Tell me, stranger,
what love should be called.” ~ D. Bonta

Not apple or rose, not cerise;
not the nub of cartilage bobbing in the larynx.

Not hail or a plague of boils from sole to crown,
not the hot winds blowing through desert towns.

Not even the salve or the prayer,
not the miniature hidden in the mural.

Not the pleasures of mouth on skin.
Not the void in the harvest bin.


In response to Via Negativa: Stranger.

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