You wanted divinity
I was laughingly crude.
You wanted oblique mystery
I was openly yours.
You wanted feverish dysentry
I was body temperature cool.
You wanted polished refined sweetness
I was half raw cane sugar, half-tart.
You wanted a glass of Pinot
I was a luke-warm Tipperary apple juice.
Whatever else they may say of love,
It does not bother with check-lists.