On The Evening Of A Wedding Poem by Graham Foust

One day love
is mere
manipulation.

Someone needs something.

You sing them
your song.

On another day love
is purely
a possession.

You want something.

Someone paints
your picture.

You rock back and forth
between these days,
until a third day,
that day on which
the world
puts its mouth to yours.

The world's mouth is a church.

Your mouth, of course,
is a pictureless room
in which an afternoon's gods
get lost.