Against All Odds
If one is very lucky and wins
the roulette of the heart,
then, after the wheel’s ticked start-stop,
the slow flap
onto one’s red or black,
and after, too,
click’s echo,
the split minute’s search for perched chips,
one slips into the knowledge
that there is no scoring
against the beloved,
that everything, like day,
breaks,
just as all, like night,
falls,
and there is no point in weeping
whipped wilfullness,
but only in saying
‘I love you,’
when turning about and again
in the depression hips make
in a mattress,
those words a sum
of received forgiveness.
All one need do
is look up to a wire
of spaced sparrows
to see the perfection that is
the universe, often two warming
together,
like you, my love,
with me.
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A new draft poem! I call it a draft because I’ve been revising up to a minute or more before posting. It may be weird or rough but hurray!
ManicDDaily 
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