I thought I was merely plucking fluff
From feather stuffed pillows
Now my heart pounds
And longs to ring a new bell
Strange, unnerving, and all too wonderful
Was there an open door there—?
There on your fingertips?
Is there milk maid anywhere to finish her churning job?
So butter can be made.
Maid made. Makes me no longer maid.
Pushes me into the ever black forest
Of your eyes.

I wear a sweatshirt
So you can’t see how bright
My heartstrings are shining
So you can’t figure me out—
It just wouldn’t be fair, considering I am not sure
Of myself, myself.
Sinking in warmth through the crystal night
Just yesterday I wouldn’t have given this a thought
And now here we are-- together—maybe?
My only greatest hope
Is that the door on the tip of your finger
Is not revolving.