She speaks without voice,
His smile makes a susurrus of sightless butterflies,
well fitted for inside of me.
She looks at me when I can see her.
When I cannot,
her face is as twisted
as the gnarled beautiful tree bark.
But, as in stanzas of marching black ants,
her boughs have only been revealed
in a slight and scattered harmony.
That scratch across his cheek.
My warmth craves warmth.
And when they are together,
What is this beast inside of me?
And why does this feeling come in such ecstatic,
These slim arms
are now pale against the apparent wind
This great longing, this,
as full of force as the tempests long gone
And I ask myself,
when will my dove alight upon the tallest tree?