my own soul laid bare with words. The desire
to know you, to see as not before how
that unfetid need pulsed in you like fire.
Always burning, yearning to consummate,
consume, and bare the fruit that fell untouched
behind your stony wall. It was not hate
that broke your heart and took you, couched
in loss and dark, to that desert place where
one lone flower cut by calloused hands left
a tear that wet a larger garden. There
the word formed you, healed you when bereft.
Dimly I lie awake and wonder still
Was yours a gift to rob, to warm, or chill?
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