Love as a grenade

Love as a grenade:
take something away and it’s
fire in your hands.

Love where dreams are made
in shapes we read,
hanging before the lonely sun.

Love that scans with
sodden eyes the
rolling, toiling hills of a horizon.

Love that locks
these fingers and breathes
each lumpen, pockmarked heartbeat.

Love that pins a
spluttering wheel of sparks
to a fence: it spins until it dies.

Love that strains to hear
that momentary gasp of
language that would otherwise be missed.

Love that leans into
pillow all the stronger,
gutted that a morning may be all too much.