Only that tracing finger along a sinuous ridge
hints at the valley that you might flow within
in some secret pleasure dome that your seams bridge
from that potable stream between our days and dream.
Awake, alive: it seems to be no small sin
to rise to seek any world but the one within
your eyes, my mind, our heart encapsulated
in that soft linen repose from which we’re sated–
from that soft-spinning prose from which love sings
I have tethered my anchors to your world of gems,
as you ride on my hot air to heaven as chorus hymns:
You are the highest, we will always have an in between
those moments as mountains and their crescent ravines’
crystal-clear pooling: reflections of a bright love’s sheen.