A sweet sour series of crises marriage is, as
damned and blessed, we head down wrong paths,
only to double back to get our bearings.

Love grows like Lenin's revolution. Two steps
forward to one, two, three steps back,
lurching leaderless through dance class.

Needing, but not wanting to need,
we'll still glare at each other from across the room,
occupied by our separate longings, then fling ourselves
into each other's arms and hang on.