you know I both understand what we found out

And to render harmless a bomb or the like 

Of such a pouring in different directions of love 

Love scattered not concentrated love talked about, 

So let's not talk of love the diffuseness of which 

Round our heads (that oriole's song) like on the platforms 

Of the subways and at their stations is today defused 

As if by the scattering of light rays in a photograph 

Of the softened reflection of a truck in a bakery window 

 

You know I both understand what we found out and don't 

Hiking alone is too complex like a slap in the face 

Of any joyous appointment even for the making of money 

 

Abandoned to too large a crack in the unideal sphere of lack of summer 

When it's winter, of wisdom in the astronomical arts, we as A & B 

Separated then conjoin to see the sights of Avenue C 

 

[Bernadette Mayer {1945- } 'Holding the Thought of Love', from The Best American Poetry 1988]