Lady

Lady, I call you Lady, never met a bit of you, not in a painting, not in a photograph, not on a street nor as a reflection in water or glass. I see you though, you're the very youngest and the most ancient, you're a tree of prayers every branch of you a secret bloom only lips may open. Don't ever think of me as seeing you as an idol to idolize. You are the flesh of dirt and the blown lungs of a stale wind just as everybody is, but none of this lowliness rules you, for you whisper into our blood and mud, but lady your beauty is not for seeing, your love is not for stealing. I lift the hem of your skirt and see my sunrise there a shining plantation of all my desires. That place behind your knees, that sweet hollow where worlds nest so worthy of a kiss from reckless angels. Blindly I send you the crumbs of my mind for your fingertips to gather and feed upon.