A Few Things Love Transcends

Love transcends the hanging booger. Love,
we're fairly certain, has transcended hate,
though not always for all the parties involved.

Love's transcended some increases in airfare
and even steep boosts in rent, though only
in the poorer neighborhoods. Love, they say,

triumphs over lovers—my lovers, your lovers—
and true love, at least in Shakespeare's canon,
trumps death, if in a sometimes limited sense.

Has love transcended youth? Well, survived it,
we might be prudent to say. And age? Wrinkles?
The leveraged buyouts of gravity, the blowing

of the blossom of lust? Sure. But what, you ask,
of fart and foul habit? Has love soared sure
above the swamp of unbalanced checkbooks,

loud music, gauche or baggy clothes, your kin?
It has, my love. It has. True love has beaten
separation, preparation, defenestration, baldness.

So take me in your arms if ever there's a chance,
and quick, let drop both commonsense and pants.
Let our two mouths enflame our trembling flesh,
and feast upon a chancy truth: love becomes us best.

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