Love is a Collection of Shapes

Complications in your love life,

as shapes, must start with the triangle.

Alone you’re a line,

in the beginning at least, because the addition of

another line creates the letter L.

And when placed on the forehead, this sign can

become as daunting as a scarlet letter.

 

Port to port,

squares and rectangles

are contained. They come

to pass, by seas and oceans,

purple mountains majesty,

onto rusted tracks that have not

progressed since a golden stake

joined two separate ways of life.

 

At one-hundred miles an hour,

a written word is not as powerful

as a shape, a collection of shapes,

a unified image that is logistical.

Conception brought round full circle,

until repetitive nature and routine

become systematic, if not lackadaisical.

 

As the world turns, one side sleeps,

another wakens with intent to distribute.

And somewhere in a lost city, or suburb,

two people that have formed a triangle,

sit between a lit candle, on top of a square table.

And in the breast pocket of a man’s suit sits a

square box, holding a gold circle.

 

Shapes become meaningful.

And sometimes answers are explained

by shapes yet defined. But the answer

Yes 

that was given at that square table

was displayed in the shape

of a tear drop.

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