Love Makes God Of The Ordinary

Love knows nothing,
Love cares not for propriety,
Love arrives amid the cobble clatter of hooves,
Boisterous dust and muck sweat.

Love stumbles in laughing, half dressed, through the doorway,
Irreverent, seditious and comical.
Shattering the still air of the sober meeting,
All spice and scent of night.
Barefoot and wet, it drapes its languid rooting limbs,
Across the sticky leather.
Demanding, "What of Mystery?"
Asking, "What of the songs of bodies."
It pours in your eyes too close and fizzing,
Its breath incendiary to the loins.

Love speaks in tongues and the language of animals:
The crew are in the spirit room,
The captain run mad...

Love is a willing fool:
Pays no mind to age, opinion or the gossips lash.

Love burns holes in your clothes,
It wants to stay in bed all day,
Eating hot buttered toast with extra butter.
Love throws bills on the fire, leaves dishes in the sink,
Rubs mud on the carpet, smears jam on the walls.
Love plays truant, calls in sick and won't answer the phone.

Love will not wait until morning,
Love will not wait for the end of the month,
Love will not wait for when you think yourself ready.

Love fevers the feet and fingers,
The tongue, the lips,
The hips, the chest.
It refines the eyes,
And makes roses of the breath.
Love turns the wax in your ears into honey.
It goads and pokes the sleeping belly dragon,
Pours petrol on its lust.
It raises the fruit of the body to a ripened blush.

Love belongs to the dew clad green and lushing dawn
Love belongs to the dancing gravity of ocean
Love belongs to the sun warm living clay
Love belongs to the soft cool robes of tree shade
Love belongs to the bat fluttered dusk
Love belongs to the star lit owl-hoot-milk-blue-moon
Love belongs to the thunderous quiet of inky night

Love makes God of the ordinary,
Poetry of the mundane,
It sees with painters eyes,
It wants to touch and be touched by everything.