with irritation at the things you do —
but always underneath my heart is glad,
those maddening things are part of loving you.
as strangers recognise a magic true —
love’s made like bread or weaving on a loom
grown slowly out of mulch, both old and new
a dense-webbed reference set, a glue
of things exchanged, remembered, contexted
that makes us an ethnicity of two.
I got up from the bed to make a rhyme.)