My dreams still can’t keep their hands off you.
It’s nearly thirty years now, and I’m still putting
your name to ink and lost in the mystery of your
touch. Strange how the sweet history between
us has become more than half the matter.
Your kiss is still the flint of meaty poems, and your
smile continues to be the key that opens metaphors
like small and perfect lockets. It is not so much
that we are one soul in two bodies. It is more.
We are the nest for the other’s journey.
This is no fragile bond. It is deeper than bone.
We have buried each other’s dead, wandered
great deserts seeking fine and shining kingdoms
only to learn they were always within us, and locked
ourselves away from the world when it got too busy.
Sometimes this dance deals more with energy than
with form. We are as willing to be with one another
as rain is eager to gladden the leaves and lawn.
At night, when we read ourselves to sleep, I revel
in knowing we’ve lost the fear and need of the hunt.