Since my poetry has yet to stir you
maybe I should just remove my clothing,
stand at the foot of your bed,
and wait for you.
Be still for me.
Don’t now raise my internal complaint
which, like the ocean’s waves,
will forever undulate and ripple
and place your hand just above my breast
where tiny snowflakes make their home
in the summer months of ruin,
and where some small stars find solace
From the Sun’s unforgiving burn.
With the soft tips of your fingers,
you will feel the wings of various, scattered sparrows in flight
as they make their way to the surface of my skin,
only to feel
the constant, streaming warmth of you.