your poem

My friend,
whom I have reached for and missed;

you who are so magnetic
the raw elements of my flesh are drawn in;

it seems peace is not metallic.


I have left a note on every leaf
sure to meet the rain,

so they will run for the lee side of your chest
and quake,

and everywhere you walk,
people will stop, gaping,

"How colourful he is!
How he sounds like the breeze!"

Would you be soothed?

If I feed you the roaring, dancing
children of my heart,
will you sing?

Oh, that I could return this delicious, furious stickiness
you have given me and fill you to the
corners of your stoic smile!

Then I could hear ten thousand miles of sky
scream victorious and know,

you are free and at last, alive.