My dry palms long for
a smoother compliment
than this basket weaved of reeds.
There exists in this such a notion--
latent, fiery
circuits in the floorboards.
Would any fingers do? I've
only tasted few. Fathers'
thick and large to mothers'
like a branch of blanket
comfort.
But my heat, flipping and bounding
somersaulting, begging to be complete
and begging to be cooled
in the mold of your grip--
must be satisfied by basket weave
still only to carry loaves of bread to you
on our picnic evening.
Sat Apr 02, 2011 11:31 pm