Poetry is not Alone in Gardens of the Night
I dreamed you in a painting, only
colors of this world could not contain
nor brushes bleed perimeters, refrains
return you to my rhyming arms—lonely
lines that transit mem’ry of your waist
like halfmoon bodies lost—their gravity
eclipsed by what they cannot feel or feed.
I have to know: Can other artists taste
you in the flesh? Can other artists touch
the aura without astral planes we flew?
Can other artists burn the cosmic roux
where you and I are stirring overmuch?
Can all we are and all we yet may be
be hung upon a wall, the world to see?