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.
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