A love poem need not be written

No, need not be enlisted in loving

So measure my love apart from those

Needless in the stack, thistle in the thatch

Which lie against meddling fingers

And latch beneath skin's narrow pass

The machinist's wife

I need to leave her

So that in rite I might return

A manicurist, but really

Just a better listener

Each machinist will break

His bits and pinch for screws

And bang his stubborn metal

So a love poem need not be written

No, need be only lifted as a lever

Were there ever such a machine

Which heat and time have worn

Against my numb and gnarly fingers

As then battered stuck to hers

As manual transmission

As it happens, healing happens

Perpendicular to the wound

A clemency pursed in purchase

And when witnessed, put to rest

Because love poems linger after

In the distant pangs of lover’s faces

Every memory, fresh cut, still strange against the page