I would hesitate

            To shake your hand, 

            The one that stretches

            Like a labyrinth of roots,

            A thatched protectorate

            For the deep eternal springtime of your eyes,

            Their knowledge of fruitful hate,

            Incendiary beacons

            My young hands seem so 

            Old-fashioned, tactful

            Almost to dishonesty

            With their impetus to sand

            And smooth discarded sin,

            To arrange wild roses on the

            Table of my aspirations,            

            To keep the dancing fingertips

            In check

            Even when jazz is on the radio

            Or a lover reaches into me

            Like still tall grasses in a summer field

            Before the rains

            I used to watch the 

            Wheeling span of outstretched wing

            With sorrow for the laws of

            Hunger, gravity and fear

            But thanks to you 

            I’m seeing more that

            Tethers let a muscle flex,

            That shadow throws a greater light

            On the complexities of joy