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Ode to One Future Lover
We needn't share each other for
fear of time, its passing wrath,
overhead while under bed the
beasts-imagined bend the springs.
I've wound myself in tidy bows
made by arms about your throat and
resting on your shoulders where
my eyes can reach your eyes gone wide
by proclaimations made so trite
and futile by the words I've bound
to worth that's found beyond my scope
and my ability to say.
I like us better in this way:
laid so flat in sprawling mounds,
stifled laughs by cover-alls and
warmed not by the bulk and sheets,
but by the sweetness of our breed.
In you I will shed myself;
in piles I will gather at your feet,
begging for assembly by
a hand that gasps familiarly.
The round and firm, the consciousness
of what appears too boorish, best,
or circumvent by lover's blinds
that shade me from the hating sun
will take from me this hollow bell
that rings aloud at whereabouts I
can't control or navigate, unless
we're at the helm, together.
