Wednesday, August 08, 2007


Production's not a poet's highest goal,
For well we know how little counts as art.
I only hope these shards reflect the whole,
Make clear at least some semblance of my heart.

For since your tender touch first set me free,
My heart has been too full for me to keep
My tongue, my pen from singing what I see:
Your eyes, your lips, your tongue, your arms.

Why sleep?

And now we "know" each other in that sense,
And body, mind, and soul have had their due,
I long for life to show the future tense
Of what's now present, show me more of you.

There are no words to capture my complete
Contentment in your arms -- hear my heart beat...

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