It is hard to believe that love,
the greatest achievement in human emotion,
can be contained within four cardboard walls
like a mouse caught by children.
But when the string pulls out the stick
and the box comes crashing down overhead
you can’t even think to escape
before those blinders are stuck in place.
Or perhaps you aren’t of mice,
but are of men; a cleaner cut,
and you’ve huddled between those walls
as a last defense against the cold.
Those sopping, winter rains run swiftly
‘round your sweet little box
begging to enter, and it’s all you can do
to keep your bent doorway from breaking in.
Or perhaps it isn’t a person at all.
Perhaps inside your box are pictures
of people long past, with pretty green eyes,
dusty from years of preservation.
You might remember them, at the beach,
where the silky waves of seawater
wove between your feet
like their fingers between your hands.
But nowadays those oceans of blue
are only visited in memories
and the sea can only seep out
through the overcast lids of your eyes.
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