Love is a game of chess breast
to breast breathlessly waiting
but let none dare the first move.
Love loathes nothing
the abominable one
amorously insatiable.
No score on the board
Eros wants more
Dear if you please.
I am love sick ill from
love’s lovelornnesses
I’m sick of love.
The love handles worn
patina cracked I fall
stutter and stumble.
Love is cancelled same
as sadness we make
mad mistakes.
Opposing love is not
hate but hopelessness
a soul without a home.
The hidden crawl
of the creeping snake
whose cynical mistrust
calls our love padded
under a green cloth
of jealousy and meanness.
Love that hides fear
looks askance occupied
with its own beloved soul.
Our 50 year love affair
love in a moat nest
seasonal lights o’ love.
The individual soul’s
chi-chi outlandish
dress and mess.
In the muddle of the night
the Bishop rides his Stallion
to the Castle to warn the King
the Queen has run off
with a Pawn en passant
we saw it on social media.
The King blows his top
between the legs of his
own marble statue.
Love wants less and less
outlasts the selfishnesses
of its landlord Charity.
The soul is a piece
of a whole love able
to forgive as we fall
fall to a winter of love across
from one another each to each
loath to make the first move.
The Coming of the Toads 