The touch foams -

You are not the man I wanted.

The moon, when full, can almost read this
in the air, on the beach,
or hear it in our laughter,
our thing of signing,
more witchcraft in flight than humor.
The moon may read this,
but it knows that we are more that steps on sand,
more than absorption
and trails of salted water.


You are comprised of things I never found.

Clocks and kindness;
you have taught me of both.
You wear a watch when you sleep;
are you timing us even in the unconcious?
You forgive my lateness,
either for our dates
or my entry into your life.
So,
I am harnessed to your mortality;
kept by the simple pleasures of your chest,
your Aegaen eyes,
your rage.

You are the man I always deserved.

My perilous lips,
the weapons of your seduction,
my reflective eyes,
the cause of your lure,
seal.
The sounds of that mortality,
heartbeaten, slow panted, mucousy stirring,
keep me here
with dry gritty ankles and chest hairs wavering.

You have become things that I miss.

Kiss me,
though we were not born for each other.

Kiss me,
with your large hands clutched.

Kiss me,
as if the moon watching would harness her tides, prevent time,
and let us pass unscathed.





GLS
10.12.92