in late morning
a man on the subway
in a light coat

“God,” I said, “what do you want me to do?”
“Child,” he said “whatever you want to do.”

“Satan,” I said, “what do you want me to do?”
“Child,” he said "whatever you want to do.”

The city sits above your eyes,
in dark mascara strokes.
Your soft pink lips are chapped and tried
unglossed, and un-baroque.

The flowers of a garden’s growth
are painted on each iris.
The laughter and the sadness, both
are on your cheeks that i kiss.

Your body sparkles, freckles brushed
are baked in your warm skin.
A bellybutton slightly pushed
by God’s last touch, thumb pin.

I cannot fathom all my love for you.
Know, no knowledge of what's real is easy.
I try to give you all my heart in true;
will you accept my words, my heart, thus please me?

Not I, not you has all the answers now.
Marry! I cannot believe this passion:
you love and hate me with one heart but how?
For love is simple hate in simpler fashion.

You kiss me kindly, lacking any strength
(lack any vulnerability in that).
Kindness is not love to any length;
In love we're rarely kind. A lover's spat,

your bane--my kindle--falsely represents my
heart. Are we truthful when we fight; and why?

you do not like my flowers: throw them out;
collect the scents of other brighter buds.
But flowerless, and powerless I pout
about my lack of flowers; lack of love.

I garden and I wait, but nothing grows.
Your soil doesn’t take to nourishment.
Though I can be the sun, or man that sows
the seed; but I can find no ground to plant.

My flowers come from far, or must be weeds,
exotic, or too normal burden seeds.

But who says weeds are not exotic plants—
that should not grow and should not stand a chance?

I should just drop my seeds and let them float
on any wind that cares enough to dote.

You are no flower but if I picked you
you’d bode unwell in this environment.

Make me naked by petal, walking by vine
and just a seed, two lip pieces, tulip
then bury me in you i know you’re mine
rushing slowly soil, sunk, blossom tip

give me kiss for color, coming on to
you. On you, no limbs but falling leaf
by leaf, bipedal, standing—but bent, you
blow the dandelion dust, white, belief

is something but lust for a wish to come
true. I have to lay here next to you.
It’s spring already, by trunk gold bees hum,
new roots are sprouting from the wish you blew.

Fold you over, fold me bare and red
then dwindle, unkindle, lay your sleeping head.