Holding a poem

				 in my feelings like the woman		
                                 you are today, a day hotter than
				 it was Sunday, or yesterday
                                 at this exact time.

				 Holding images of you inside
				 where my secrets go to hide
				 from the page, words I do not say,
		                 nor bring outward as rhyme.
		                 I hold them like the woman
			         you could be across a line
			         and down, with similes like wine,
			         sweet dessert ones, savoring
		                 the taste of it the way I can.