and thoughts lingered on skin; like onion layers
shimmering underdark
with O-ness to every pore.
I have poured myself over
and over in unclad unbeauty,
likened you to Neruda's lovers; Poet of my sight.
bled into these are the nuances
kept inside, almost never spoken
even to You.
what of hands that speak in braille?
adagio moments forgotten
of when-where and what-becomes of how
to hold: naked and undone, I am rounded.
Peel me, to the readiness of Your eyes.




















55 old applause
