sometimes I can make thoughts move
like people do
with my words across wires
perhaps not to quench
but to sustain until those moments come
when lips and hands and eyelashes
can fall down amongst us like rain.
If I said that I know the way
you can make thoughts move
or that mine haven't stopped since
the first time
you touched my hand
touched like our voices do
through these wires
letting everything else disappear:
this might be the first time in my life
that I wished I could write poetry.
But I'm thinking about daisy chains
how I'd like to make a crown of them
and words
for your head
or mine
both
run through tall grass
our holding hands
touching
Right now
I think it might rain
and if so -- under those drops
like soft silent fingertips
dancing on my skin
I'll go
close my eyes
and wait.
