The mind is a camera
Keeping the obscure; the shaper
Of a world of sight and touch
And time makes treasures.
A soft set of chords
and words
That keep a moment long past
As fresh as the breath we spent
Skin on skin, when lips could not say
What lips would say, and so
We painted and wrote in snail-foot movement
a wet-stained poetry
It was in a time of full moon and Jupiter
You were the altar for
passion prayers;
So many lives ago…when the heat
Of your breath solved cold winter air
And I was near inner peace...and closer to heaven.
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