Poets turn themselves inside out looking for raw material, like a pauper turning out his pockets hoping for a penny. And so often what spills out is one of the ghosts of lovers long gone. We are so Mobil, we garner many loves along the way, and love once given can't really be taken back. It can't even be turned to hate, though hate or anger may take its place.

Love is always love--the raw truth. It may warm us for a lifetime or surprise us--come and go like wind before snow and leave us perplexed. What was that masked emotion?

Love songs are so volitile--they call up ghosts that we try to keep locked away. How can we love one another wholeheartedly when so many ghosts clamor for attention? Products of divorce and remarriage and divorce, how do we love again? Standing on that hill in Colorado with the new wife by your side, do you see the first one and mourn the loss, berift and lost, though hand in hand? How do I make you see me?

How many ghosts do we bring into our marriages, and how do we sort them out and shoo them away and turn to one another for the genuine--hands, eyes, hair--and hold one another close against the ghosts?

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