It’s love if it’s

a politics of
physics and
brutality, bitten skin
soothed by cool breath;

bruise and 
replay.

It’s love if it’s

one day continuous from free coffee
to turn-down service,
walking miles in mist
and fog;

charm and
side-glance.

It’s love when it’s

an arm thrown across
the passenger seat
when the car skids
before the near-crash;

hurry up
and explain.

It’s love: 

that big stone,
that cold wine,
the smoke in a mirror,
the smell of mushrooms
in a closet
wafting out. No one
willing to speak of it.
No one afraid
more than the other.

And it’s love if it’s
slippery and 
different and
always. And it’s love 
if it’s inconsistent.
And it’s love
if it feels like a rocking chair
at the instant it is
tipped too far back.