More —
between lovers
is not an assertion.
There’s no thorn,
no stone,
in that word.
It goes up in the air
blossoming
into a question.
It goes, unrecognized,
curved,
to invest the other —
More is not
a clinch to grind you
to powder.
Isaac once
stumbled on
that severe flower,
it went up in the air
to be nothing more
than a blur —
Nothing more
than a question
in which the heart
occurred.

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