Enfold in me
your light, your life–
sweet summer child
turn not your color from my heart,
the scent of pine trees,
sculpted in the dawning,
where all of nature is the swell at your sweet breast,
the gathered breaths cultivating
convalesced coercion of my soul.
Breath to breath, I seek your notes,
the tantalized texture of your smile
writhes still in me, in places
only faith should know.
You drink me, though you do not know
the taste of my desire–
the character in the caricature–
myself, I, wilting in that shade,
in those dark places where your lips and light
shall never know, nor ever sing.