Love Poetry For Couple

Marco Polo Maybe it�s the natural extension of immigration. Maybe it�s the awesome travel bugs, making my wife�s feet uncommonly itchy. I�m not surprised, at any rate, to hear the paediatrician�s nickname for our son. �Marco Polo� suits his - in utero - trajectory along the Silk Road, from Kublai Khan�s Forbidden City to the snow-covered stones of a caravanserai in central Turkey

At her party the boy runs best with the hard-boiled egg. During the obstacle course she meets him at the bird feeder on top of which raisins are scattered. �I�m a bird,� she nibbles and the boy really does bob and nod. Later he says, �we�re twins, and I can telepathically read the thoughts in your head,� at which point she makes a dent in his leg. It�s spring. Sometimes she hears an animal cry as

Empty girl I was, so far inside, grass didn't know me It was something unbending, only light seemed to touch But so long as I could smell the sea, so long as salt I had extrications, music, that fire, phase & beat And all around the world went off, banners & avenues, cruelties Now it's come one, come all, a kind of sassy hoedown The grass is going, it cracks & withers sadly, almost infinitely But

Where are you from, I ask the waiter. He is from Brazil, Poland, Florence. Sometimes he is from Mexico, and I say: so is my nephew�s fianc�e. In Auckland the taxi driver who lives in Henderson is from Afghanistan. There are forty of them there, he says. They love it, but they have to make their own bread. In New York the taxi driver is from Pakistan. He asks me where I�m from, and