I have learned love rests on the odd assortments of petals.

                      Pick buttercup, pick sweet pea:
            You love me. You love me.

                                   Pick snowdrop:
             You love me not.

What then shall I make of the four valves in your heart?
          The twin seedpods of your ovaries?

                      You love me not. You cannot love.

I dream of the digits, five on each
            of the hands I am hoping to hold.

Your ten toes curl and uncurl through the sea
            of my unseeing.