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Come sit with me and tell me of

Your sense of what is and isnít love.

Keep talking as we bide our time;

Keep talking; wile away the hours.

Though certain, sure, of reasonís powers,

Iíll listen for the slanted rhyme

That every hesitation makes

When calculating mortal stakes;

It is the lingering of an eye,

Or maybe the lingering of a sigh,

Or the lingering of a careless touch

That lingers there a bit too much.

I think Iíll stay regardless of

What you say is and isnít love.


Robert Crawford



© 2000; originally printed in The Formalist.
Reprinted by permission of the author.


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