We want to shout our love in languageless terms,
Caress with appendages not yet evolved,
Wed at a monument constructed
and destroyed for us.
We are stranded at the mountain’s roots,
believing that love springs forth
like a crocus from the soft earth,
unwilling to imagine the hard bulb beneath,
and sure that a passphrase known by all
(at least in part)
cannot be secret,
cannot be love.

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