You found the word, 
love,
in a hundred poems,
and scored as many
heart-shaped papers
with that word 
across the periphery
of our proximity.

We have been debating 
whether you engaged
in plagiarism.
                        

In the rain drenched Olympics,
clubmosses drape big leaf maples.
Natives joke that men grow moss
in their armpits.  Wood-sorrel 
grows wild on the forest floor
with brief white blossoms.                    
Epiphytes suck damp air,
and the scalps of nurse logs
tingle in anticipation.

Time grows wild
inside rainforests and this house 
where a man of errant curls and beard
sits like carved stone on a kitchen stool.
Flecks of just cut hair slide down
his newspaper cape, scatter to rest
in red, brown, white heaps of duff,
roots extending deep
in the vinyl forest floor.