The Poem Unwritten
For weeks the poem of your body,
of my hands upon your body
stroking, sweeping, in the rite of
their way of wonder down
from neck-pulse to breast-hair to level
belly to cock –
for weeks that poem, that prayer
That poem unwritten, the act
left to the mind, undone. The years
a forest of giant stones, of fossil stumps,
blocking the altar.
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