In the contradiction to worth
In the submission of self
To the outer perimeters of brick
Laid in flesh, you remember
That the home, in-spite a flesh haven,
Is too, a bed for the lover, a sanctuary for the friend
And an outhouse for the stranger.
And in these vicissitudes,
Man needs to be giving without receipt
Or acknowledgement, knowing that
He was made to be the servant
Who washes not the dirty feet of the master
Only anguish’s eyes, weather-proofing
Damp sockets, when the homology
Between man and stranger is found
Not in the moment passed
But the moment undefined in time;
When two can choose to be as two
Or join as one, to unfasten our inhibitions
And prime love in its most distinguished
When it is absent of gain or condition.
Love is what the heart ought not to
But does, with no capital gains,
Just like a branch over a river
Tilting to the weight of a dozen fruits,
For the man on the opposite shore
To gather the harvest.

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