It’s me,
weaving on a loom.
Uneasy man in an easy room.
I am a concord grape and an apple in a bowl.
I hear whispers of love.
Take the love.
Take the love
and remember her hands
her small fingers
“Do you juice?”
“Oh yes I juice.”
Oh
You will go there again hoping to
see her
You will never see her
Will you run with the flowers?
The lover’s hands are the flowers,
the sky,
the land and the water.
Oh drop poems
quietly into the night
quietly into the night
within sight
of the quiet ones
roaming the night
and hoping,
hoping.