love, or whatever

i used to be touched by every type of
love. the fossil, the functional, the alien
like the curling embrace of a foxglove
in the spring moonlight entertains again
thoughts of rebellion.

her tender horn of trailed-out suffrage
pointed, like an argument, to her plot,
where bulls run through weeds, & oilrags
litter the gulley beneath the gunwale.

There we raged the night away,
not as one might later fret, on standby,
like an old refrigerator chugs 
at last in the backyard,  disassembled.

& all this slowly fades away, like thoughts,
a slow drink of something that tastes
the way perfume smells: American.
That’s not what this is about.