‘Who, being loved, is poor?’ Oscar Wilde
There is an un-mined treasure pit
where Hammurabi’s scribes bend hourly
to tablet-etch the lush of their oneness;
it has no gates, just bridges.
Where he surfs every heart-filled wish
he dares to daily permit himself to dream
and she is a Picasso paintbrush
he lovingly paints his world with.
Where she is a Freudian archaeologist
delicately digging in the aftermath
of every unspoken mote her lover
has yet to broadcast.
Where they are a team of pit horses,
unselfishly delivering cargo after cargo
they willingly shovel out,
to stoke this world they love.
There is a precision in their loving
that requires no maintenance.