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The odd things we love, when we love

Henry cares only for films about humans. Except
when he’s high, when he garners delight and soft
consolation from the documentary adventures

of other mammals. Dogs, in particular, warm his
weary cockles. He loves dogs more than any lover
of dogs I’ve known before, and I don’t mind telling you,

I’ve known my share. If I had nothing else to love
him for (but really there are ninety-seven things,
which I intend to list ad nauseam in future poems–

stay tuned!), I’d love him merely for his earnest
love of dogs.        And yet, if one day he went mad,
and started loving cats (against which I hold nothing,

due to allergy), I’d click my heels and spin around, and
love his love of cats. Because, you know, that’s how
we got here. That’s how it’s worked, so far. Ailuromania*,

to give but one example, becomes just the thing at hand,
the current metaphor: a pin, a peg, a cross, a stake,
a nail–a strong, convenient hook to hang our love on.


*ailuromania: a passion for cats