America

A poem about the nature of love (I know, highly orignal). How its passionate, how it can eat us up, how we must let it go. But ultimately on how it is nothing like we thought it would be as children.

Love is like America,
for British kids.
At once, planes of desert,
or the poking.
Jutting. Feeling. Reach and wretch,
of city fingers -
never sleeping worth
in a strangers bed.
Never sleeping belly.
Living or heaving.

We believed in mountains,
perspiring, with clouds;

Wet,
with life and thickets.

At night's foot, draped in stars,
we'd play some old man's game,
and chart the universe's turn -
our turning, with it.

But if love is America,
than has love been explored?
Ridges traced,
and forests delved,
and ripped,
and torn,
broken down.

Those prying, city fingers,
turn to claws,
taking off the sky
until both of us are naked.

America isn't plates,
but sand drifting in the wind.
History of others,
here and now I go.
Left alone in the desert,
the drift finds it's way back home.