a man should not seem desperate
but I would write you poems
I would make you laugh
I would cook you food
and read you stories
and play songs by Joni Mitchell
where everything is blue.
Ships can pass
but I won’t let one pass
that catches.
I will write new poems
maybe in march
as buds unfold
and winds on beaches
here begin to soften,
grey waters turn blue.
And as you change the face
of summer starting
I dream an end to longing
I look in your eyes
in hope that you are her;
the her I hope can see
inside men who want to look
and wants to meet one.
A her who holds her heavy lust
In gentle hands and
the strength of her thighs.
A her who wakes the sun in winter
and holds it back from hell,
who carries the wolf howl
in her smile at autumn,
she that knows the tears of men
are wetter than any other water
on the tip of a finger
that kisses a shoulder
lately bitten.
A woman
that wants
to know
