The Way of It
It’s thunderstorm country around here.
They roam the boiling, hot, southern skies
on legs of lightning, like dark, angry trolls.
My Chinese roommate is impressed with them
because as menacing and mountainous and electrical
as they seem, through the trees whip and the rain
lashes - like special effects - no real damage is done.
Love is like that, a circus briefly coming to town,
that scintillates, palpitates, irritates or validates
- a carney-call with the urgency of a sale.
“Run away and join the show,” it whispers.
Love is both less than it seems and more than it is.
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