I careen between the iron cross

caring and need,

you play midnight cello moaning tones;

from it emit your voices.


I sit in the executive chair

in corporate blue

my bow string

drawing  intensities

from nebulae

from which my star was born;

it exploding

willingly

because it senses

your desires

circling

in Maypole Spring's Dancings.
 

Sometimes

all is in the yearning

not in the consummation

because the former is perfection

and the latter too risky;

thus we anvil stamp

in misty nights

and allow souls to rise

and meet

and that is often enough

for eternity--

allowing us the purity

of having resisted

pressing,
hungry

inevitabilitites
for the time being.

Take this rose secreted
on your cello brown desk
as a psychic lover's
heart
blooming
in full view;
only you and I
know what it means
that the full river flows
first to the water fall
then over
down to an undisclosed destiny
where all the Forbidden Loves live.