Oh, love, you have ten fingers,
a mouth, a skull in your head.
A predilection for candied
almonds, an ability to perform
calculus, eyes bluer than a crayon's.
What can I do to adore you
in the manner God would find
acceptable? How can I list
all your qualities, when my pencil
breaks with the least exertion,
and my memory melts like
cotton candy? Instead, I'll let
the earth calculate for me
the rain outlining your body,
that fills with everything that grows.