Blessed the eyes
That meet your own,
Blessed the ears,
That taste your tone,
Blessed the flesh
That dress the bone,
And blessed my own
Undressed.

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.

if i had the patients to love you.
oh if i had the hight to meet you,
i would rise to greet you,
i would not hide to seek you,
i would not look so deeply,
if i had the eyes that see you.
but the eyes i wear they do not see,
my eyes they only look,
they look for a reflection,
bent low over the brook.
they see waves and shattered light,
though they do not have the sight,
to see you staring back,
through my own searching eyes.
your love was always mine,
if i had the eyes to see,
the you inside of me,
then love would never hide,
and so patient i would be.

your love is no more than a prison,
when you kiss only to be forgiven.

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.

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.

the sun is in love with you
it plays in the pools of your eyes.
the sun is alive in you
as the song is alive in the dancer,
it embraces me with your arms
and delivers me
to the earth.

i cannot remember
how to forget,
my delicate.

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.

her open legs
like parting clouds
offer the sun
so the earth may breathe
with all its limbs
rising to meet her.

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.

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.