There is this place he lives I cannot envision;
no matter how many times I close my eyes
to the wet that clings to his chest...
where I lay crying for the love of us.
There are words gone un-written, somewhere along
the edge of tremors attacking my flesh;
where all he has to do is touch ever so slightly
& I am his like the first time
every time; & I want so much to know
what it is about this place.
He likens it to feelings of exposing heart to skin;
being born again in swallows of pride &
humanistic expression.
Perfection is so far away; but we love anyway.
We love washed in a river that never runs dry
& the water is a collection of tears
that come in response to a poet who wishes
she could find the words.



That is fine.
I appreciate you coming by.


9 old applause
