A poem by Michael Graber with a photo by Toby Marshall.
This hum builds between us,
the same way two rivers
join salty water. As red as
your lips after we kiss too long,
passion for you flies through
street lights. What fools try
to organize the flow of people?
They must not enjoy love’s detours –
that time you got lost driving
down the street you grew up on
overtaken by a glance or lingering
remark. Only such willing, capable
souls can swim here. Don’t ask
how or why. Science or Philosophy
might be able to talk about union,
but they can’t embody it, can’t trust
their lover will catch the wave
with a receptive ear, then offer
a naked syllable keyed into
what is with the precision
of a tuning fork that works
in two worlds at once. Some
believe only four directions
exist: North, South, East, West.
But there is another direction,
another dimension, inside. Here,
intimacy is the native tongue,
mercy erases all debt with a dance
or a curl up on the floor cry, in
the hive where hums are born.
Poem by Michael Graber