untitled

I've started to hope
that I might one day
read the poem you would write
when you were a poet.

How would it go?
I know
by virtue of not
by unknowing
that you might
be like me, where
your poems so numerous
would circle each other,
biting heels
nipping at fur,
teasing roughly
almost to violence,
where the truth
or its idea
or shadow
takes a different shape
at every measure.

I'd like to know;
does love suffuse
you too?