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-I-

I have the idea,

that we will take in hand

the mirrors of cool water

on autumn mornings,

letting them slip between our fingers

into echoing reflections of bright fall gold.

Walking,

Two engrossed--

there runs the stream of all morning thoughts,

and mislaid sunset memories....

We might.

Taking arms we could dance on

smooth pebbles,

letting them round beneath our toes

all bare and

dew-brushed.

Take your lips in mine,

breathe, and faint into a lusty

embrace like a tango,

mambo back,

sashay,

unlock.

You laugh,

and then we move on.

-II-

Twenty years from now

no one can convince me that the

same notes, in the same sequence

do not play

the same song,

but you firmly disagree that they do.

Differences between our lives can be married

in the execution,

in the slight differences in the cadence

of our practiced fingers,

on separate instruments,

playing the same progression

of chord after chord after chord.

It sounds the same to me.

The fingers on our bones might tell us,

cold comes,

death snaps,

take care and watch...

We'll saunter, and watch the cool autumn

greens be cloaked in a mantle

of shifting orange.

Scuff the leaves,

Make a noise in the damp loam,

and embrace again.

Come to me.

-III-

Long ago--

I remember my fright as I

arranged myself to approach you,

as I cataloged my footsteps across the campus,

following the box-headed moth in his

aimless journeys,

just longing for the surety of the

chromosomal attraction of electrophoresis

through a gel,

but finding, of course, only the

comfortless encumbrance of fixed pupils

staring with the futility of effort

for the contours of a dream to guide me

in that time

before there's any light to see by.

I did it anyway.

-IV-

I have an idea,

that white walls and beauty,

might come between us,

and hold us together.

A terror at the start,

a first.

We might make it happen.

That the wind sighs, "Take me, take me."

Is no secret.

Not late at night beneath a

yellow moon.

I have listened to these, hands on stone.

Dark shadows in drunken eyes

in the cemetery,

courting catholic ghosts,

are nothing so mysterious as you.

I fascinate,

throb, think thoughts,

meander about the shelves in daydream,

simply desiring,

that touch.

I've an idea,

that it'll all come about

like a fairy tale,

minus the gore and the stepmothers.

Leave out the barrels studded with nails...

It is something that seems so

inescapable.

It’s where I move to when I drift.

Make me a magnet and let

me attach myself,

Effortlessly to your life.

-V-

Let us fear only weakness,

and tear the distances down between us,

and our separate lives,

knowing only,

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