Insolent

Love didn’t seem to make my world go round -

it was spun before, curled into a ball
in some ancient time, before the ground
knew the tongue of my feet, before my small
dreams and ambitions fought over control
of dark spaces, and cliffs of frothing sound
crashed on parched oceans; before the blue bowl
was flipped to cover them, before profound
meanings were read into chapter and verse.
Overall, it seemed rather a recent
demand that it fuel the earth’s turns and twists.
I was fine with what love achieved, its sparse
course, its breathless spasms. It’s  hardly decent
to ask for more.   An insolent wishlist.