think open fields
dandelions slaves to the gentle wind
your voice a rose mid-bloom
there's a better way
for me to be a better man
to love harder
or just to slip
my mind slowly in between
your words
and become a yearning
a promise
that i cannot keep
but die trying
just to see those
lips parting
as a hair strand
so subtle
kisses the end of your
brow
this moment
could be the very end
and that would be
just fine


***********************************

myself is sculptor of
your body’s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings