loving county is a county in the us, the least populous county in america.
how perfect, i think, while idly scrolling wikipedia.
the place named after the thing we are born, compelled, destined to do,
is the least inhabited place in a loveless country. that’s poetry in motion.
we could go and live there, set up our own farm.
i would hate it. my mum hates people who live on farms.
i can’t say i don’t understand where she’s coming from.
yet, farms are something of a mystery to me.
so clandestine, yet this is where what we eat is grown?
what sustains us, and we don’t know where it comes from, or how it’s grown, or treated.
you could say that about loving county. my home. my heart of hearts.
someone, one day, will write this poem again. the infinite reach of the universe compels this to happen.
like monkeys, typewriters, and hamlet.
but they will never love like i love, how you love, how any of us love.
we find other people’s words to say what we mean:
“they don’t love you like i love you”, too on the nose.
“they could never taint you in my eyes”, deeply true, yet too overused.
“no-one will never love this way again”, proving my point.
poetry is unerring, stretching out with the inexorable march of the universe.
meaning is singular. you’re the only person i could see in a crowd.
an amalgamation, but isn’t everything?
