I yearn to write you a poem
that when you read you don't stumble
on the raised fists and frowns of phrases
on hairpin bends and sharp angles
not even a downturn of a comma
and don't skid to a stop anywhere
blinking in too harsh a sunlight.
And as you read - those stanzas
fall like toes dipping into the river
fringed cool with low hanging branches.
Like a cocoon spun of afternoons
and pigeon throated iridescence.
Like mountain mists you breathe in
as you move through them they vanish
deep inside your membranes.
By the time you get to the end
it's bound fast to your pith
it's coursing through you gently
so easy in your channels
that you feel it was yours always
in this life and the previous
and all the unlived ones to come
for all eternity.
