10.

So the wind was on your sleeve: you asked me

Questions I could not answer. The metaphysics

Of love was lost in the detail of a child’s gaze

His look aground, the size of crickets, the leap

Of a frog. We look at the sky and he inquires

After lake bottom and forest floor. I

Chase abstractions like butterflies, but he

Knows those wings are real, that doubt creeps in

For those who don’t look close enough. You sense

Something we don’t and so does she, a child

His age, who considers how all of us speak

At angles to each other, how the wind

Winds us at different rates. But she is not

Putting a spin on whether love is hot.