Soft faces in tender places, I remember Shy lips and high hips, cold, the embers Soft skin and what could have been Echoes of stillness, in my labour, I have seen. Dotted noses and eyes brows, I have kissed In the throes of passion, questions missed Loved etched, sketched and drenched Here now I stand, on the world’s edge. It is a warm, fuzzy August night, as some books say. Mice scurry about, fat cats on their tails’ ends. I guess this is still so in one of your many books. Anyway, them books have squeezed me out of your heart and mind. Surely strange, but to love you in one still world is impossible when you live in so many. I am sure, too, that there is a pretty poem that says what’s in my heart about our situation. Adios. Feverish nights, grey nights, my dreams are possessed Yet, come morning, the old hauntings are to be dispensed The day is come, revealing the world as it is – boring I long for dusk, then I can pirate to adventure – roaring. It is a holiday. I am in ...
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