Forms of Love

The Silent Time

The sun attacks my desk
shaming the lamp
I burn throughout the night
searching for words . . .

I am mute. Even now
when holding you,
a witness to blazing eyes,
knowing what you

become: a stream in flood,
a dog-eared book,
a stereo full-blast,
a honey comb,

a late storm with lightning,
desperate winds
between your dancing legs
your clothing drenched.

But I fail you. Kitchen
clocks squint, refuse
to melt, and you must leave
for other joys

that I fear may shadow
your memories
of touch, of sighs, or of
my little songs.

Yet what have I to give
but words and skin:
blessings for your ears and
wild offerings

for the altar of your
smiling soul that knows
itself through veils of flesh
I press and pull.

So in this silent time
when my lips touch
your open hand, I am
afraid that you

will hear me speak too much
of fear. Night comes.
I am ashamed by what
you have not been.