I don’t long for you as much as I’d like
in this quest to stretch my ostrich wings
but unfailingly when the softness of flesh is far between
there you are in my heavy head.

(loathe as I might be to let you think
that flesh and flesh alone is what I dream
but it’s an easy code for the warmth of our share
the fingertip tongue of our faith)

and really it’s the knowing, when all’s abed and bought
the familiar it evokes, the trusted tell-to
the way I know myself when you are near

so here again, a poet meagre meaded
means to call your heart to mouth
for goodnight in stead of kissing
five am feeling flightless and floored.