Sunday, July 02, 2006


There are times when I go away
and do not return to myself
until She finds me.
Then all my doors open wide.
Bones become channels;
musical arrangements
for Her breath.
Her limbs
are this sense
of my movement.
I am skin and flavor,
a seed pod between Her teeth
that She breaks open.
Often however
I drift away
into Her many dresses.
A loose thread
in the fabric of Her love.