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In All the World
There’s only one you
In All the World
I tend to walk around with a lot of insistence, dear Asha, that you should love me, and I don’t know what its origin is but I’m willing to discuss it the next time we dine.
I try not to broadcast it — but here I am again walking this poem out in the early morning when the air is clean.
Let me take a stab at it, at understanding where this denial of the truth comes from.
I sigh when I see a jewel on the hand of some woman in the front row, it makes me restless to tell it.
I feel like I’m a reasonable man! Sure, I’m filled with concern, but I think that can also be an asset, maybe even get me into heaven.
My love is automatic, and if it were a buffet, I would probably overeat, and maybe even stuff something to go in my pocket.
I want to get revolutionary with you, turn my weakness into a proud statue made of plaster, greased by the stroke of a genius’ eye.
It’s no crime to find you in the material, looking at your body creates all kinds of stimulation.
Light the owl at night I know I hunt you — your core is a place I hope to remain all summer.