your grace
I have a gift for you
a crown, a ring
the pleasure of the queen

and for me
I'd take the same
in form, in breadth
not half as much as you left

in greatness
in form granted to me
I hope, I pray
you crown yourself in my love this day

your heart
I would bathe in gold
in light, in riches
gold as summers bright

my lady
my good queen
(what a pair of us)
take a token from the dust

and know that I love you

fake wood grain pressed conscious desk
pushing up on elbows, and armpits, and eyelids
headache computer screen
sinks between teeth and gum

slavery is dead,
only very much alive
not in the same sense..
not in the same sense..

machines collect dust
lives go numb
and wages are spent on daily bread.

Every poem I write is of you.

I write of your chiseled jaw and cheeks.

I write of your collarbones, from whose depth I could drink wine.

I write of the bed of stars you laid me down upon.

I write of your golden skin under the soft white sunlight.

I write of your eyes which remind me of the moon.

I write of your spine which resembles the solar system.

I write of my love and of my man, whose entire soul resembles the composition of the universe.

And I can only hope I am a galaxy within it..

(i. r)