Invasives

The love we walk around with is a dulltool—though it hangs from our belts with a rusty grace,like planets expertly wired in a model of spacethat slowly turns when whoever built it pulls

some secret string. The other love, the cold,sharp one, the one that keeps a quiet placebehind our lungs, is harder to see, its face(some tools, of course, have faces) unreadable.

But I know it, in my life, from the way it makesme see the lovely world as lovely. Rain,bull thistle, rabbit tracks, a friend's face, even,

might be its face. Or does it have your face? A lake'sface? A galaxy's? Or phlox? The profanehoneysuckle or maybe tree-of-heaven?