There’s no perfect rhyme for Valentine (mine).

I love a man, a plan, a canal, Canada.
I love various women in black tights in Brooklyn, NY.
I love a cat, and a dog named Satchel.
I love a woman wrapped in florals.
I love an author and her drawings.
I love concentric circles and the shapes of toes.
I love a plant’s refusal.
I love a man in only socks.
I love a map on the wall and its tacks.
I love Eloise, a bird I know.
I love the squeeze of heels and walking slow.
I love an employee of our government.
I love the giving of a blanket.
I love hot pink and rolling.
I love a man in Nike sneaks.
I’d love a doctor in the family.
To love a train conductor is, for me, a natural act.
I love in pairs of two and seven, of four and eight, of six.
I love a taller sister.
I love the postman in his sturdy hat.
I love a man named Ed on Robinson.
I love a poet lost.
I love a farther toss than I can throw.
I love a lengthy gait.
I love a saucer as a plate, a teacup for a bowl.
I love the class of ’78.
I love many chickens and various goats.
I love on a swift diagonal and often with a pen.
I love three men I’ll never meet.
I love the summer’s slicing heat and those I’ve found in August.
I love a mother and a dad.
I love a flannel dyed to plaid.
I love the witches and the Wiccans and the West.
I love three meats I’ll never test.
I love the sound of words more than what they mean.
I love a vestibule, a room for shoes, a coffee paid in quarters.
I love a midget and a mouse.
I love the characters in books.
I love a shameful act of bathroom talk at 10pm.
I love a Christmas day.
I love a solid mound of clay.
I love instructions from the ground.
I love all Katzes, near and far.
I love the cheeses that I know, and the tallgirl at the bar.
I love the French, the Portuguese, the Italian and the Danes.
I love a three pack of girly-patterned Hanes.
I love the flowers in the pitcher and three kisses on the cheek.
I love a meek and puddled world, a squirrel, and a moat.
I love a bruise begotten in the rain.
I love the smell of toast and all the skills a man can boast about.
I love a month from which the country flees; I love mosquitoes dressed as bees, and sweeping up the kitchen mess, and dressing for the day, and all the boys and girls at school, and staying dry, and fish that’s fried, and all the ways we pry and prod and pinch, and the inches that we gain, and the  points amassed along the way, and all the ways to say it.

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