Donít Look Now
        	
Donít look in the crowded cities of the coastal bore for 
love is apprehensive, avoids easy entanglements, prefers 
to remain in each of the seven villages of solitude,
appears for only the briefest moment, occasionally, but 
not necessarily, obvious.

Donít look in the high country beyond the central spine 
for love is never foolish, sometimes insanely bizarre, 
often flattens against the bracken of a purple moor,
telegraphs nothing.

Donít look in the unpainted desert of the western quarter 
for love carries no water, needs to cool his longings with 
hopeless wonder, sidesteps quicker than a moonbeamís
shadow at high noon, decoding pure delight for amused 
observers.

Donít look across the widest prairies of the fertile 
midsection for love abhors undistinguishment, oblivious 
to flagrant rosins floating in stifling conditions,
heedless of hankering needs, incongruous.

Donít look along the shores of the serpentine river 
snaking from north to south on a speculative whimsy, 
harnessing no excuses, flowing indefatigably toward
the lost sea, for love has his private salt, cures desire into 
jerky strips, proffers himself to a lucky few, inevitable.

Donít look in the redwood forests of the rockiest regions 
where snow-covered aspirations stand tall among 
unfulfilled longings, for love has already anticipated
your blind gropings, now lies in ambush with a quiver of 
extreme countermeasures, laughs quietly.

Donít look now but your trail-wrecked body, after years 
of false wanderings, is now in Loveís arrowsight, 
crosshaired and helpless; ironically, love has been 
assiduously hunting you.

Donít look back.

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Cupid's Bow

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