maybe there is something there we don’t say,
something the mouth hides, the hair overcomplicates and furrows
something made over with kisses, and pale complexions not yet rosied,
with the sun, with any wethered summer breezes.
you have it tickled, thoughts which make me hope,
love for somewhere sometime else,
and myself in a thicket, parseled away for next time,
in linnen and creased wax paper.
maybe there is a comfort to be burrowed,
maybe being burried not in earth but cloth and skin will perk the primrose skin up again
maybe the grey gritty hours smoothed,
you on my porch sinking your cool stone hands into the wooden arms of the swing,
and the daylight singing with all of you, filled with you,
and so am i, and so am i
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry