As with poetry, so with love...

Poetry is like a river:
starting in the bloodstream,
it gains momentum, coursing
through capillaries and veins
until the arteries are like
a stream in flood.

So it is with rivers
and their tributaries,
augmented by the melting
snow, the thaw-waters,
spring rains, until the spate
can scarcely be contained
within its bed, between
high banks where trees
reach out toward their fluid
images, clutching at reflections
in a moving glass.

As with poetry,
so with love,
that cannot be confined,
neither between sheets
stretched on the rigid framework
of a bed, nor between steep banks
where flowers bend toward
the fleeting torrent,
nor within parameters of hours
marching round a dial,
nor within the rectangles
on calendars, denoting days…

The borders between nations
are too vague, they only
make love smile, as Eros
takes Euterpe's hand
and love is smuggled in,
while customs officers resume
their fruitless search
for contraband…