you are the poem
i could never write,
your spelt in silence,
heard with sight,
you are the language of wings in flight.
no silverless sea,
no moonless night,
no scene could paint
a black so bright
a deep so blue
one such as you.
i could not lie,
no words are mine,
what words could weave
the warmth of light?
i could not lie,
i could not write
you are the poem
the page is white.

my same heart is yours,
in the warm expanse,
that through vertigo fields,
in fallen dance,
plummets from summits
and cloud crowned peaks
to bleak wet comforts.

my same heart is yours,
in the craters of our failed landings,
that wet-winged cocoons
in the curl of a leaf,
who hollowed is held
in the soothing fantasy of the shell,
and the never-end of night.

my same heart is yours,
in the warm expanse,
in the winged expanse,
that lifts in the wind.
your same heart is mine,
on the wings of the wind,
that lift with the mind,
in the rise of the tide of our joy.

you move like an environment,
dressing the air,
sweeping the hills.
  oh smooth dunes of your landscape,
serpents weave tunnels in your sands,
i am the snake in your glands.
the rare flowers of your hands,
touch like spring,
in the southern lands
of my longing.

you move like an environment,
charged with life,
charming the atmosphere.
            even on opposite sides of the sphere,
you are a sweet mirage,
swarming the landscape of my imagination,
flaming the horizons like a heaven.

morning light floods the room.
ocean songs spill the walls.
your body is a violin,
of foreign curves and hidden clefts.
O weeping flesh!
O sweet wild music!
i cannot swim,
i bow the string,
i am the wind.

O how we drown,
amoung the sounds,
our bodies sing.

on my birthnight
we made a bed outside
by the river
in the forest
and wrapped our bodies in sheets
beneath the stars
and distanced
from the thick silence
of loud thoughts
as if wrapped in sheets of music
we played with eachothers warm bodies
with cold hands
and gasped
and giggled
and were never heard
and never seen
and never thought of.

your hands elaborate on the theories of creation,
as they trace the earths map
across my burning body,
gardens of glistening sensations
sprout a trail behind them.