if only we would love  
with our eyes
closed
and our hearts
open

we would not see
the outer shell

we would simply
fall in love with
the soul
the spirit
the heart
before us

for the rest
eventually falls away

even with misspeelings and quotational **** ups and missed
opportunities like our hearts are on fire
and burning with the spirit of Byron
or Browning, we write and I want to bow to all you ,
who like me have something to say,
whether you are reincarnated Bard,
or a hard working slob, like me,
at the end of the day,
if someone sees and relates that is all it means.
I would enjoy being Whitman,
but then, that would mean I was dead.
I am not Chilean, so I could not be Neruda.
I am not female but Sylvia relates to me.
And so, we write, on and on.
It may be a gift or a sickness.
We just have to.
I take a lack of talent
and make it useful.
It is to me.

Your favorite game is chess,
But I thought the game was mean,
Cause you labeled all your pieces,
But I was never queen.

Please, be mine.
For a day.
For a night.
A thought.
A look.
A glance.
A wall.
A border.
An ocean.
A lifetime.