Fingers Make Some Music, Please

sigh. what can I say I haven't said before? what ingenious pronouncement of metaphor? the sighs of my life keep knocking at the door I want to be drunk with poems that commit suicide, honour the person I used to be sighing with the apple's first bite, blushing red ripely picked off the summer tree when the heron waded, quietly stalking his anticipation and the egret flew white-feathered with snow, the carp bobbing for insects when the world was still green with Eve but it is morning and the morning arrives with tears you leave and your touch escapes these memories traced like signs on my back, and all I have are these hands busy with something to do, and all I hold is this wanting you.