The weight of your finger

You weigh your love with your index finger
Fold it into compartments
In your agenda
Instead of holding it up
Against the wind
Where the revolution always blows

Reading books about how the revolution
Will not be televised
Writing down quotes you think says something
About modern life
Ink on a cocktail napkin

You hear someone say something clever
“Hold up your finger in the air”
As if writing was doing
As if love could be written

The napkins with truths
Lost in other peoples’ words
Motionless with ideas
Of what love would
And would not
Look like

You put your ears
Next to Bob Dylan
“The answer is blowing in the wind”

When was it?
That the theory of argumentation took you hostage?
But baby
When love stands
There is no room in your well thought-out apartment
In your color coordinated agenda
No room for this wind
Your finger not even getting the chance
To miss it


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