Daylight cracks with the sound of crows.
I cannot taste saffron anymore,
still, I do like the color it gives my eggs.
I treated love like it was the horizon,
out there, the edge always beyond my reach.

I thought the world was trying to be perfect,
but then it doesn’t have to be real to be real
-like the idea of love. What else is made more real
by its absence?

Within my heart there is a man at war writing home.
Within his heart there is the feeling that love
is like digging a hole in the sand.
That’s just an idea about love, actual love
may be what happens under an August moon
when the night is soft with wine and music.