Anyone who has left love, who has stepped out of the boat, onto the water, learns what they had not known or wanted to. Anyone who turns their back on love, as if it might not take too long for them to go all the way around and come up behind it— anyone who lets love go, opens their hand while walking through a crowd, as if getting, piece by piece, rid of evidence, will lose, along with evidence of the thing, the thing itself. Anyone who sets love down, and takes their eyes away, anyone who travels far when love is home, anyone who homes alone when love is far, will lose what cannot be found. Maybe they thought love was the earth under the road, or the road under the sole of the shoe or the foot under the body but by now it is back there. It was a bush like a fire, and now—no more fragrance or light will be inhaled, or seen, as when you die you will not see the world again. Even if you thought you had not believed you were loved, something in you knew that you were—and you stepped right off love’s roof.