Wild and rough,
soft and beautiful,
nuzzling starlight,
nuzzling yellow leaves,
her deep soul
rises like a rose
—its substance dense as blindness—
and opens instinctually
to a warmth of words.
This world, and all its holy books
were born and given
as food for imaginative love!
She herself, a flowering book,
an unread story,
lets a little wind riffle her pages
through a glance and vagrant smile...
*
It is unborn potential
that makes my belly hurt;
yet, is my hope and ecstatic joy!
How much murk
separates passing souls
that ought to unite
in the dark web of old yearnings?
Who's hand, if cupped to my hand,
would pool the light and let it drip
like the sun's own oils
down upon my loins
to enflame that
red song
of the night
into singing?