Now you are married try to love the world as much as you love each other. Greet it as your husband, wife. Love it with all your might as you sleep breathing against its back.
Love the world, when, late at night, you come home to find snails stuck to the side of the house like decoration.
Love your neighbours. The red berries on their trampoline their green wheelbarrow.
Love the man walking on water, the man up a mast. Love the light moving across the Island Princess.
Love your grandmother when she tells you her hair is three-quarters ‘cafe au lait’.
Try to love the world, even when you discover there is no such thing as The Author anymore.
Love the world, praise god, even, when your aerobics instructor is silent.
Try very hard to love your mailman, even though he regularly delivers you Benedicto Clemente’s mail. Love the weta you find on the path, injured by alteration.
Love the tired men, the burnt house, the handlebars of light on the ceiling.
Love the man on the bus who says it all amounts to a fishing rod or a light bulb.
Love the world of the garden. The keyhole of bright green grass where the stubborn palm used to be, bees so drunk on ginger flowers that they think the hose water is rain your hair tangled in heartsease. Love the way, when you come inside, insects find their way out from the temporary rooms of your clothes.
