Her

speak to me of oblivion,
of the quiet, fearful ghosts that
haunt your hours
tell me your fantasy,
and I will tell you mine

this morning
I take my leave
and find my mouth is full of
poems

rivers of thought
and word and
metaphor
have somehow
burst dams
and now threaten
to flood

you, me,
this day

your sweet nectar covered
my face
and my hands
delicious
raw and vulnerable
curious,
I am the bee
returning to the flower
your pistil, stamen, petals
drench
and enchant me

I am so taken with
you,
your nakedness in view of
all the neighbors
the way you
take up space,
neither
begging, nor
demanding.