Three were asked
to stop and speak of love,
and the first said,
ah, the hunt and the capture,
endlessly repeated.
The second said,
there, the trophy —
always on another’s shelf.
And the third:
it’s the blueberry bush
happened upon a week too early
for harvest,
then a single berry plucked
that is sweet, the next three sour;
waiting, then, for the ripeness
to come.
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Dark Matter 
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