In love

I’ll usually effect a threshold.
Usually a stream.
And there we splash and banter.
The threshold is my flattened-out organs

without a summit.
Or sometimes I dig holes

and think that I’m clever.
It’s a method of frustration

and deferral.
Although when I’m in love

like I am with you.
I’m a citrus orange

plunged chest first

on to a stainless steel juicer.
Waiting for a pure form

of domestic violence

to turn delicious.