A Poem
by Ned
I feel that jangling
the telephone of my life
wringing in my soul.There are no wrong numbers here.
I answer.
I hear:
movement
your breath
your voice.I turn to that black sun
hot with promise
at the center of your eyes,
that draws me down
from the man I think I am
with the gravity of my becoming.I gaze.
I see:
your hands
your breasts
your face.Innocence holds my cup.
Experience pours with unsteady hands.
Knowledge flows down my arms like water,
dripping on my feet, forgotten.I drink.
I open to:
your fear
your dream
yourself.