I think every poet is hoping, one day, to write a poem about love which is as sincere, strange and indescribable as love itself. This is my hundredth attempt, and I’m learning.
We were windchimes
And our octaves
Under the lid of a sky
Through which science and god were peeking
But we did not care because that night
We were windchimes.
We were elephants
We were grey enormous old
But I still loved you because one day
We had been windchimes.