I want to write a poem for
the sincerity of your fingers
the small silver stream that flows
from the edges of your forehead
to the ends of your hands
the thousands of cyan workers
digging the frets with their bare members
the breath that breeds forget-me-nots
on each rhythmic exhalation

I want to write a poem for
the gentleness of your fingers
the sky that blooms within
explosion after explosion - and then
crushes and then blooms again
the thirsty animals anticipating
patiently the rain
tightly embraced

I want to write a poem for
the taste of your fingers
salt, lustered shells and metal
from carcasses of boats
-one, two, three, four, five
six, seven, eight, nine, ten
forbidden fruits
for as long as this poem holds,
my very own.