If love is a hit parade of borrowed songs born in the age of cannonballs that have remained faithless to the oats, and not a simple communal requiem for the sun smote knee of an equestrian adjusting her riding boot to catch a crimson leaf, then why do we rise after an all-night embrace to paste legs to a nation as if we’re unfamiliar with the lonely parable of the dumbed down swan who wins the stone? In other words where did you stand when you were turned mute to the herd of choir by the one who kissed your future shut? Did you make time beforehand to catch the moon admiring her reflection in the black husk of an autumn leaf bag? Ignore the storybook directive and fold up your jack knife, carving lover in the skin of the chestnut tree is a day one calf with no discernible coda, no silver pitcher dropped in the trampled tulip bed, it’s the preamble to a woe, a negative embrace in the render zone. I’ve been told that the thousand tiny hammers that spin the embryo of a rose will stall mid-pivot when confronted with a choice between a string of assorted trinket beads and the capricious permutations of an abandoned birthday balloon picnic primed before release. In a recent act of conspicuous bravery I’ve begun eating snow cones in front of Elizabethan mirrors so it looks as though I’ve won the race, and that my impatience concerning the urban fawn licking the handle of a half-buried broom beside the community faucet is just a simple childlike interlude before I bend to accept the strap, the buckle, and the wreath.