Loving

I love my books to be born of paper,
For this makes them perishable, like ourselves.
I love my man to be touched by living,
For this makes him rich, like our old bookshelves.

I love my music to be unseparable from my blood,
To come and inscribe into my genome.
I love my food to be simple enough
To say a recipe like a gnome.

I love my speech, my mind and my deeds
To be like an atlas of visible sky—
Beckoning, calling for me to explore,
And never to bore me to try.

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