You know real love,
a kind of waltz.
A dance of restraint,
a rule with a pulse.
All the feelings that you felt,
Hot bright freeze or melt,
Have one life upon the shelf,
Like falling leaves and seat belts.

They go toward the sum of the parts,
toward the more at the heart.
The bud, the blood of the blood,
The you of the your, the more.

And the feeling
We call love
just chemistry proceeding,
rebounding doubt and lust?
Are the stars from where we are
just reflected dust?
The book, the bell, the priest--
Mistaken for eternity?
They go toward the sum of the parts,
toward the more at the heart.
The bud, the blood of the blood,
The you of the your, the more.

You were never unmoored
even when you lost the floor.
In fact, in the worst of the war,
there was only the more.
In fact, in the worst unease,
there's an anchor and a breeze,
a windhorse, a willow tree,
a waltz between the dragon teeth.

They go toward the sum of the parts,
toward the more at the heart.
The bud, the blood of the blood,
The you of the your, the more.