I don’t want a love that sits on a throne and calculates prospects. I want a love that hangs wet clothes in the wind and rides on the back of an old horse carrying a girl and her crate of carrots to the market. I want a love like marrow shoveled from the bones of rugged people who still tell stories to each other. I want a love that no poet would bother writing about, and one every king would condemn. I want the priests, even the gentle ones, to call it blasphemy. They can hide behind the pen, the crown, or the robe, but even the old horse knows that all poets weigh the same, priests were people before they were priests, and that if they are lucky, they’ll be people at the end too, and the wind as it passes through the clothesline and tickles the wet shawl, will slip through the windows of whispering lovers to carry to kings and queens in their bedchambers a secret message- a hot breathe- of what it means to be naked, to dry the clothes of another.