Underneath the palms
of eternity
somewhere in the desert
of my convictions
my heart is aching
for you
but my slate isn’t clean
without the southern
whippoorwill
of my youth
still embedded into
these streets
and spines
of my childhood.

Yet
I am only innocent
at the hands of you
reckoning time
backwards
and forwards
cutting these chains loose,
you say:
cherish this day
you aren’t living without
my love pressed up against
your mouth
that of your running kind
I am sure
that I have committed no crime:
I don’t cage you
I don’t command stillness
I only know
which way to run
with you.