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Poem

(for Wentworth Miller)


… jewels of the jungle,
gems and trinkets strewn 
across sacred, stained altars of the mind, 
desire whimpering and simmering 
like cats on a hot tin roof never 
meant to be cooled by rain,
Night is an unquenchable flame,
the sun is the eye of a laughing storm
watching the pirate of your soul
plundering mine, 
You kneel facing the wind,
I tilt back my head and the moon is
a timeless sailor yet anchored in our hands,
Perhaps we are princes meant for the helm,
perhaps delighted paupers ready to feast
on immeasurable treasures of the  lips, 
our toes meant for sand, 
our fingers for twining in sweat,

Where coils the grass
while the ocean weeps our favorite song
and we walk its refrains?
Yes, the markets are busy,
though buy me an orange and I'll peel it for sucking
its liquid joy, 
then we'll wipe our chins with the mist
before wandering among the warbling flutes,
Sunset beckons from the distance,
the cats are yowling and flirting
on sizzling tin, 
tempting the never-dying flame of night while
the tarty ocean flings its salt,
tears of rain washing it across our feet,
and, yes, our pathway sweats with 
gems of dew reflecting us,
jewels of the jungle -
 … our trinkets are left behind...

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