Love, from the start, with two in one,
is paradox, a harmony
in counterpoint, an all or none
leap to rejoin my vis-a-vis
with no thought to the pro and con
engagement between you and me,
ready for what will be anon,
an opposite identity.
So, fronted by your sweet defile,
I slap and beat, not to defile,
but to ignite your torrid heat
so that, flagrant, you may, my dove,
burned in the Phoenix fires of love,
rise white and pure, affirmed, complete.