When these pebbles become flesh
When they reach, lust, and bless
The foaming waters at their knees
When these veins with their agony
Become tributes only to a lost story
The height of being ends at heaven
The flute and violin praise our passion
The ears are blocked in pride's fashion
This is to not know the origins of our waters
The man made of marble and straw
Whose face and hands feel time's gnaw
Wades to his waist in blackened seas
His wife in the garden makes paper dolls
To dance and stand in their waiting halls
They will fight for breath in love's trepid channels
Were they denied were they crippled and silent
Did they move with their dry tongues impotent
To the recesses and curves of the shy and strong
6/6/12
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