Tuesday, January 24, 2012
I may need a stout rod
for the journey but
I can walk it on my own
because your skin smells of ocean
and your sea glass eyes are still
the same shade as your laugh.
I expect certain considerations:
a touch on the neck,
a brief clasping of fingers,
a kiss that has nothing to do
with a peck. An opening:
your mind into mine; an emptying:
your baggage, the polished suitcase
in which you carry your heart.
And then we fill each other gently
with secrets torn apart and shared
like bread. We spread a net of crumbs
to keep us each from stumbling
into hunger. Know that I choose
exactly this way: the way you
made your way to me again.
You may expect me
to be more of a trellis
than a blade. More of
a rich dark vein and less
of a potion misted in air.
I will keep in my heart for you
a small portrait, a mirror that shows
you standing in your finest pose.
Some seeds don't open
until fire and heat have brazed
their useless outer layers.