Love Poem

If we clock a lemon falling
from the balcony six floors down,
it will be June by the time it hits
the sidewalk. People will look up
and shout, "it's your birthday!"
What seemed so dark and wintery
has been sprayed with the yellow
light of early June. What rumbles
in our stomachs are not the sausages
of our youth, but the pangs of some
distant love, all vibrant and dangling,
ready to be thrust asunder,
lifted heartily, and mine.